


If You're Going to San Francisco

by hello_goodbi



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Small Town, I'll add more tags as i go, Jim is mean, Multi, San Francisco, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Small Town Boys, Summer Love, Summer of Love - Freeform, Younger Mike, idk what this is, john wants to get out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_goodbi/pseuds/hello_goodbi
Summary: In two separate towns, in two separate states, two separate boys are desperate to get out. John doesn't want to watch his life pass him by in the small town where nothing happens. Paul wants -- no, Paul needs -- to get away from his father. Their paths cross in San Francisco in 1967, where their lives will be forever changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back everyone! Not that I really went away... oh well. This is an idea I've been toying with for a while, and I decided to just sit down and get it done. I hope you enjoy!

“I’m going to get out of here. Soon as I can.” John was lying on his back under a tree, his fingers loosely tangled around Cynthia’s. It was Sunday evening, one of the rare days where both he and Cyn had any free time, and they were watching the sunset light up the clouds.

“How in the world are you going to manage that, huh?” She said it jokingly enough, but John heard the doubt in her voice.

“Hard work.” John ignored her sigh. “If I save up, I can get on a bus to New York, or Chicago, or LA. Or somewhere.”

“That sounds nice and all, but how are you going to get the money?” Cynthia propped her head up on one elbow, keeping her other hand on top of John’s, and looked down at the man next to her. “You’ve got almost nothing, babe.”

“I’ve got a job,” John said indignantly. “And my truck. I can sell the truck.”

“Nobody’d pay more than a hundred dollars for that piece of junk.”

“Bus tickets aren’t a hundred dollars, Cyn.”

“You’re going to need money for food, and a place to stay. And besides, Mr. Meyer needs your help.” Cynthia took her hand away from John’s to poke him in the stomach, laughing softly as he swatted her hand away. “I think you’re better at keeping the farm running than he is.”

“There are plenty of boys who’ll help him,” John grinned, and propped himself up on his elbow, mirroring Cynthia.

“But leaving him to find someone else right at the beginning of summer is a bit cruel, don’t you think?” Cynthia poked John in the stomach again.

“He’ll have no problem finding another boy, Cyn. Especially at the beginning of summer, when everybody’s parents are pushing for a summer job.” John poked Cynthia in the stomach twice, smiling as she tried not to laugh.

“And what about me, then?” Cynthia pouted. “Are you just going to leave me behind?” She looked at John with puppy eyes as he poked her again and again, only loosing her cool when John started to tickle her.

“You could come with me,” John suggested, still tickling Cynthia and grinning as she tried not to laugh.

“I can’t,” she said, finally managing to push John’s hand away. “I’ve got to help Mother and Daddy with the store.”

“Why d’you call him ‘daddy?’” John asked curiously. “I thought that was a name you kept just for me.”

“ _John_!” Cynthia’s eyes were wide as she playfully swatted at John’s head. He ducked out of the way, laughing. “I would like to go with you, though. If I didn’t have to help Mother and Dad,” Cynthia said a moment later, her tone serious now.

“Are you just going to spend your whole life working for your parents? Waste your whole life in this small town where nothing happens?” John wasn’t grinning anymore.

“I like it here, John. I don’t want to leave. Not permanently, at least.”

“How could you not want to leave? Nothing exciting _ever_ happens here.”

“Marty Channing got pregnant,” Cynthia pointed out.

“Yeah, well,” John grimaced, “let’s just be glad that wasn’t you.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to have a child with me?” John couldn’t tell if Cynthia was actually offended or just joking.

“Cyn, hon, I’m eighteen. You’re nineteen. We’re not old enough to be parents.” John picked at the clover that covered the ground instead of facing Cynthia.

“What’s going to happen to us, John?” Cynthia, who’s voice was already soft, was barely audible, which meant crying was a very real possibility. John pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned against the trunk of the tree. He opened his arms, inviting Cynthia to curl up with him. He smiled softly as she did, nestling her head in the crook of his neck. Absentmindedly, John started to run his fingers through Cyn’s blonde hair. The sun was almost gone from the sky, and the light made her hair look golden instead of just blonde.

“You didn’t answer my question, John,” Cynthia murmured after a few minutes.

“I dunno, Cyn,” John said simply. “I dunno.”

* * *

 

“Large milkshake and a double cheeseburger?” Jane smiled as Paul walked into the diner and sat at the counter.

“No,” Paul shook his head, “I wish though. I’m here because I need to get a job.”

“You mean you _don't_ want to work on a farm somewhere?” Jane teased, taking her apron off and jumping up on the counter next to where Paul was sitting. “It’s just because you care about me so much, huh?”

“Oh, you’re right. I forget you work here,” Paul sighed and shook his head. “I’ve got to go talk to old man Peterson immediately.” Paul made as though he was going to leave the counter, and exaggerated a sigh as Jane grabbed his shoulder.

“Not old man _Peterson_ ,” Jane cried in mock surprise. “I hear he doesn’t have _any_ cute girls for you to kiss when you get bored.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that Joe’s Diner has cute girls for me to kiss?”

“Well,” Jane bit her lip and leaned close to Paul’s ear to whisper, “there’s one in particular that comes to mind.”

“Well then,” Paul grinned, “all the more reason to work here instead of for old man Peterson.”

They were just about to kiss when an actual customer walked in.

“Oh, hey, Danny,” Jane grinned. She slid off of the counter and put her apron back on as Paul groaned disappointedly.

“I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Danny sounded as though he was trying not to laugh.

“‘Course not, Danny,” Jane smiled.

“That’s up for debate,” Paul grumbled, sighing in protest as Jane reached over the counter to swat at him.

“C’mon, Paul,” Jane tossed an apron at him, “time for you to get to work.”

“So soon? I haven’t even talked to anyone with any power about working here,” Paul smiled, tying the apron around his waist and stepping behind the counter.

“I think it’ll work out fine. Be a dear, though, and start some fries, will you?”

Danny was one of only thirteen customers they had the entire time Paul was there.

“How does this place stay open?” Paul wondered aloud several hours later as he wiped down one of the tables.

“Weekends are busier then hell,” Jane shrugged. “Other than that, I’ve got no idea.”

“Oh, shit,” Paul caught a glimpse of the clock hanging over the doorway a couple of minutes later. “I’ve got to be getting home.”

“It’s only nine, Paulie.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got homework to do, and I’ve got to help Mike with any homework he has.” Paul untied the apron and set it down on the counter. “I shouldn’t have left him alone for this long.”

“Is your dad, um,” Jane searched for the right words, “zoning out again?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Paul said bitterly. He stepped around the counter and into the kitchen, where Jane was putting away the dishes. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Jane,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Of course,” Jane nodded. “Tell Mikey hi for me, will you?”

“Mhmm,” Paul murmured, kissing Jane one more time before walking out of the diner.

It was oddly chilly for a night in late May, and Paul found himself shivering a little bit as he walked home. Thankfully, though, he didn’t live too far away, and the warmth of his house was a welcome comfort.

“Paulie!” Paul froze halfway through pulling the front door shut. He hadn’t expected his dad to be conscious, much less capable of forming words. “You’re home later than Mike and I expected.”

“Sorry.” Paul unfroze, pulled the door shut behind him, and braced himself for the scene that he was expecting to be in the living room. “I’ve got a job now.”

Paul was pleasantly surprised -- well, pleasantly surprised probably wasn’t the best way to put it, but he was surprised nonetheless -- at the scene that actually greeted him. There were only four empty beer bottles, possibly a record for Jim McCartney. Though only the small lamp was on, Paul could see that Mike’s textbooks were spread out across the coffee table.

“Dad’s, um, helping me,” Mike said in a very, very small voice, looking up at Paul from where he sat on the floor.

“Is he now?” Paul managed to thinly conceal the shock in his voice. He was still trying to take in the scene in front of him when Mike’s stomach grumbled loudly. “Have you had anything to eat since you’ve been home?”

“No,” Mike shook his head. “Dad said I can’t have supper until I’ve finished everything.”

“Christ, Dad, that’s no way to help him,” Paul said angrily.

“The boy needs motivation.” Jim was slurring his words, and as Paul walked closer to Mike, he could see more beer bottles on the floor. Nine in total. That made more sense.

“No, the boy needs food. He’s twelve, for crying out loud. And the light should be on in here, he’s going to strain his eyes if you make him study in the dark.” Paul switched on the light, and when he saw Mike, a bubble of rage exploded from his chest. “ _Jesus,_ Dad! What the hell did you do to him?”

Mike’s right cheek was an angry red that meant he’d been slapped, and his eyes were bloodshot and red, from crying. Paul ran to his brother and helped him up, examining the boy to see if anything else had happened to him. There were bruises in the shape of fingerprints along both of his arms, and Paul could see a particularly nasty bruise across Mike’s collarbone.

“Boy wouldn’t stop complaining about being hungry,” Jim grunted.

“That’s bullshit,” Paul yelled, grimacing as Mike winced. Paul should _not_ have left his brother at home while he went to work. “That’s fucking _bullshit._ You can’t hit your damn kids, Dad. You can’t _do_ that.”

“You keep your goddamn mouth shut, unless you want a whooping just like your brother got.” Jim’s voice had a sharp clarity to it, even in his drunken state, and Paul was taken aback by it.

“Fuck you,” he managed, before gently pulling his brother into the kitchen. “Does anything hurt real bad?” he asked, standing on tiptoe to reach into the cabinet above the sink where they kept a first-aid kit.

“No,” Mike mumbled. “There’s a cut by my eye, though. Just a little one.”

“Oh, Mike, I’m sorry,” Paul said sadly, gently placing a bandaid by his brother’s eye. “I shouldn’t have left you at home by yourself for so long.” Before Mike could answer, his stomach grumbled even louder than it had before.

“Food?” Mike cracked a half-assed grin, and Paul couldn’t help but smile softly in response. Try as he might, their father wasn’t going to get either of them too down.

“Scrambled eggs sound good?” Paul asked, searching the fridge for something that wasn’t beer.

“Yeah,” Mike said gratefully. “Thanks, Paul.”

“I’m going to get us out of here one day,” Paul said a few minutes later as he set the plate of eggs in front of Mike. “I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and John have got to tell their girlfriends that they're leaving at some point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm sorry it's been so long since I posted a chapter. I've been traveling and thought I'd have access to a computer so I could post something, but obviously that didn't work out so well. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this! Leave a comment telling me what you think.  
> (Also: the title is taken from and many references are made to the song San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair) by Scott McKenzie)

“Listen to this shit, Cyn!” John said excitedly, jumping off of the hood of his truck to turn up the volume on the radio.

“John, this is at least the fifth time we’ve heard this song today.” Cynthia tried to sound frustrated, but she couldn’t help but smile at the little bit of childlike excitement in John’s voice as he climbed back up on the hood again.

“But _listen_ to it. Really listen.”

“It’s just a song, Johnny. It’s just a silly song about going to San Francisco.” Cynthia was a little bit worried. She thought she’d managed to talk John out of going to California over the summer. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to be happy, it was just that she didn’t want to be away from him. She knew John, and knew that if he went somewhere without her for too long he’d get bored and find someone else. That’s just how he was. This song, however, wasn’t doing her any favors at all. She made a mental note to kick Scott McKenzie’s ass if she ever got the chance.

“It’s not _just_ a song, Cyn!” John sounded vaguely offended. “It’s the start of something big. It’s just got to be.” Cynthia just sighed. There was no point in fighting with John when he got like this. She loved him, but he was a stubborn son of a bitch. Once he made up his mind about something, it was almost impossible to change it.

“Have you made up your mind about San Francisco, then?” she asked cautiously. Cynthia didn’t really want to hear his answer, but asking him now would be better than waking up a wee later to find that he’d already left town.

“I told Mr. Meyer my last day would be Friday,” John said matter-of-factly. “Pete’s buying the truck for $50. Mr. Meyer said he’d drive me to Des Moines on Monday since I’ve been such a good worker for the past four years.”

“Oh.” Cynthia tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it didn’t work very well. “Were you planning on telling me any of this?”

“Today, yeah,” John took a deep breath, “I want you to come with me.”

“John, I-”

“Cyn, please, just hear me out,” John pleaded, his shoulders visibly relaxing when Cynthia nodded her head softly. “I can get a job in San Francisco easily, and rent’s dirt cheap, from what I’ve heard. After Pete buys the truck, I’ll have almost $350.”

“How long are you planning to stay?” Cynthia asked almost a full minute later. She was still processing what John had said.

“Just for the summer, Cynthia.” Though she didn’t want to believe it, she could tell that was an outright lie. John never did things just for the summer. He wanted out of here, out of their small town, and this was his chance. “I need to get out of here.”

“I want to, John, I really do,” Cyn said wistfully, “but I’ve got to help Mother and Dad with the store. I don’t think I can get out of it this summer.”

“I talked to your dad,” John took another deep breath -- Cynthia wasn’t used to see him so flustered -- and looked at her nervously. “He said that if you really, really wanted to go to San Francisco with me -- just for the summer -- he thinks he could spare you at the store.”

John had never seen Cynthia look so shocked. Her mouth stayed in a perfect o-shape, her eyes wide open, long enough for John to become a little concerned.

“So, Cyn, whaddya say?” John asked hopefully. “Will you come with me?”

“God, yes,” Cynthia said gleefully, throwing her arms around John. “Yes, yes, of course I’ll go to San Francisco with you.”

“Glad that’s settled,” John was grinning from ear to ear after Cynthia let him go, “because I already bought your bus ticket.”

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Cynthia clapped her hands together excitedly. “We’re going to San Francisco!”

“Shit,” John said a couple of minutes later, jumping off of o the hood of the truck. “It’s almost seven. Told Mimi I’d be home by seven fifteen.”

“Do we have to go so soon?” Cynthia pouted as John helped her down. “It doesn’t take you _that_ long to get home, does it?”

“Well, no,” John admitted, wrapping his arms around Cyn from behind and squeezing tight as she giggled, “but I do have to drop _you_ off. And that means going _all the way_ into town,” John teased. He tickled Cynthia and laughed as she tried to squirm out of his grasp.

“Stop,” she laughed, gasping for air, “Johnny, no, stop it!”

“Johnny, huh?” John grinned. He stopped tickling her but didn’t let Cyn go.

“Mhmm,” she was trying not to laugh, and still trying to wiggle out of his arms. “Johnny.” John just sighed, and laughed softly.

“I don’t think I’m going to survive thirty hours on a bus with you,” John said, releasing Cynthia, who immediately swatted at his head playfully.

“Well,” Cynthia smiled smugly, “what a shame, because you’re sure as hell stuck with me.”

John smiled almost all of the way home. He only stopped when he pulled up in front of his house, and realized that now he’d have to tell Mimi about his plans. He knew that it was not going to go over well at _all._

* * *

 

 

“How does it feel to be done with seventh grade?” Paul asked, cheerfully setting a plate full of breakfast food in front of Mike. In the two weeks or so since Paul and started working at the diner, Mike had started coming in with him. On slow days, Paul could help Mike with homework, and on busy days, Mike helped out by being a busboy. Either way, it meant Mike always had food and was never alone with their father.

Paul was usually there every day after school (and all day Saturdays), and he felt a little bad for Mike. Sure, the boy was more than happy enough to read a book for hours, but Paul couldn’t help but think about how _he_ had acted as a twelve-year-old. Baseball games with the other boys his age, all-day fishing excursions...he was sorry Mike couldn’t have those things. But, when Paul had been twelve, their mother was still alive. Things had been much different than they were now.

Paul shook himself out of his thoughts when he heard Mike respond.

“I don’t like summer,” the boy shrugged simply. “Don’t like being home with Dad so much.”

Paul’s heart just about snapped in two pieces at that. He _hated_ seeing Mike upset at all. He had to get out of here -- even if it was just for the summer -- to show Mike there was something beyond small towns and alcoholic fathers. Paul decided he’d look at bus fares next time he went into Topeka to get something for his had. He had some birthday money saved up, and his mother had left him a little bit. Paul could only hop that it, combined with the money from his job, was enough to get to San Francisco. Ever since he’d heard that song -- the one about going to San Francisco with flowers in your hair -- the west coast had been impossible to get off of his mind.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do about that, little man,” Paul smiled, affectionately ruffling Mike’s hair.

“Little man? That’s not fair,” Mike grinned, pulling a book out of his school bag. “How late are you working today?”

“Not too long, just another hour or so. Jane and I’ve got plans.” Paul stole a piece of bacon off of Mike’s plate, ignoring the glare from his brother. “You gonna be okay at home for an hour or so?”

“‘Course,” Mike mumbled, shoving a forkful of hash browns in his mouth without taking his eyes off of the book. “Dad said he was going to work late tonight anyways.”

“Well, Dad says that a lot,” Paul sighed. “I’ve gotta go help Jane with the damn milkshakes again. Want one?”

“Chocolate, please,” Mike said eagerly. Paul grinned softly to himself as he made his way over to where Jane was fighting with the milkshake maker. Again.

“It just doesn’t want to listen to me!” she said in frustration as Paul took the milkshake glass from her.

“You’ve got to do it like this, Janey,” he said, rearranging the glass and turning the machine on.

“You are a genius,” Jane admitted, shaking her head. “You should be on milkshake and malt duty forever.”

“Does that job title come with a pay raise?” Paul joked, setting the milkshake on the counter and reaching for the Reddi-wip.

“Tragically, no,” Jane laughed, setting baskets of food in front of customers. “More kisses, though.”

“You’ve got me there,” Paul shook his head softly. “I never can say no to a kiss from you.”

Two hours later, he and Jane were walking towards Jane’s house, hand-in-hand. The plans they’d made were nothing fancy -- just a long walk along some of the country roads -- but Paul always had fun with her. He had to tell her about what he wanted to do over the summer. Jane always did better when she had plenty of time to think about things, instead of having them sprung on her. That was probably how they were the most different. Paul enjoyed a good surprise every now and then, while Jane was liable to cut somebody’s head off if anything unexpected happened.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, that’s not a good idea,” Jane teased, and Paul forced a smile. For some reason, he was incredibly nervous about telling Jane that he was going to try and go to San Francisco for the summer.

“I’m thinking I might take Mike to San Francisco over the summer.”

“What now?”

“I should have enough money, and I’ve got to show Mike there’s more to the world.”

“Boy can read, can’t he?”

“Well, yes,” Paul said, frustrated, “but there’s a difference between reading things and actually seeing them.”

“But how much of the world is he going to see if you get a run-down apartment and you’re working all the time? That’s not much better than here.”

“We’ve got some family out there. An Aunt Edith. I could leave Mike there while I go get a run-down apartment and work sometimes.”

“If he’s going to stay with this aunt, then why d’you have to go?”

“I want to see the world too, Jane.” They could see Jane’s house now, and any hope Paul had of ending this on a good note was quickly disappearing. “This isn’t just about Mike. It’s partly for me too.”

“I just don’t understand it, I guess. I’m not going to ask you not to go,” Jane sighed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be very happy about having you gone the whole summer. And besides, what’s going to keep you from staying in San Francisco forever?”

“We’ve still got a year of school left, Janey,” Paul pointed out. “I’ve got to come back here for school, and I’ve got to bring Mike back for school. And I can’t really leave home until Mike’s a little bit older. I just can’t leave him all alone with Dad.” They were stepping up on Jane’s front porch.

“I understand, I guess,” Jane shrugged. “When are you leaving?”

“I’m not sure yet, but probably not for at least a week.”

“Tell me when you figure it out. I’d like to go on one last proper date before you leave.” Jane was smiling softly, which was a good sign.

“One last proper date? It’s not like I’m breaking up with you or anything.”

“Well,” Jane’s soft smile was now bordering on being bittersweet, “anything can happen in San Francisco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John had a conversation with Mimi that reveals some interesting things, and Paul realizes just how much he needs to get our of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I made Jim and Paul cuss so much. Apparently I'm actually incapable of writing characters who don't use some form of bad language. Oops. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“San Francisco?” Mimi repeated, her eyes wide and her lips pursed.

“Yes, Mimi,” John sighed, exasperated at having to explain his plan yet again, “I bought the tickets for Cyn and I already.”

“That’s ridiculous, John. You can’t just traipse off to San Francisco for the summer and leave me alone here.”

“I can, Mimi, I’m eighteen. I can do almost anything I want.”

“Please, John, you’re just a stupid teenager. You think you can do anything you want to because you’re young and have the money to travel for at least a little bit. You’re going to make mistakes, John, and some of them don’t go away!” Mimi snapped, and John recoiled a little bit. He’d expected frustration, and maybe disappointment, but not full-on anger. “This is exactly what your mother did, you know. Left home when she was just twenty, shacked up with your father, and then you came along.”

“Are you saying _I’m_ one of those mistakes that doesn’t go away?” John yelled. “Is that what this is about?”

“Having you was a mistake,” Mimi said firmly. “One that turned out well, but a mistake. She was too young, John. She didn’t know how to raise you.”

“You don’t have to bring my mother into this. She’s _dead_ , Mimi,” John spat. “She made her mistake and now you’re stuck with me.”

“That’s not what I meant, John-”

“Then what _did_ you mean, huh?” John hated when he got like this. So angry he was starting to cry. Fuck. “What did you mean, Mimi?”

Mimi hesitated for a moment, taking a pack of cigarettes out of a table drawer before she responded. “Julia didn’t know what she was doing when she had you.” Mimi’s shaking hands managed to light a cigarette. She offered one to John, who almost declined, but took it. He didn’t smoke much, but Mimi offering a ciggie was a peace offering of sorts. “She was too young, too immature.” Mimi took a long drag and offered the lighter to John, who tried to light his cigarette only to realize his hands were shaking too.

“So she ran off and you got stuck with me.” John finished the story for his aunt. He knew how it went.

“I didn’t get _stuck_ with you, John,” Mimi sighed. “I took you from Julia.”

“You _took_ me from my _mother_?” John yelled. “What the _hell_?”  
“She wasn’t good for you!” Mimi defended herself, waving the arm without a cigarette around rather violently. “Fights with your father, strange men always around, parties...her lifestyle was no way to be raising a child. I feared for your safety, John, so I drove all the way up to Chicago -- almost a full day -- to get you. It was meant to be temporary, just for a week or two, but Julia never came to get you.”

John had never seen his aunt look so emotional. She wasn’t crying, really, but there were a few tears in her eyes, and her hands were shaking so much she could barely keep the cigarette in-between her fingers, but she was still making an effort to disguise it. Mimi Smith did not like to show any emotion at all. It was a sign of weakness. John, on the other hand, wasn’t hiding anything. He was crying -- not much, but he was still crying -- and his nose was running, and he was angry. Angry he didn’t learn all this earlier.

“Were you planning on telling me this? Ever?” John pushed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands, trying to force the tears back to where they came from.

“Yes, I just,” Mimi sounded flustered, “I just didn’t know when the right time was.”

“Well, not right now, that’s for fucking sure,” John said angrily.

“No,” Mimi admitted. “No, right now wasn’t the right time.”

John didn’t answer right away. He needed a minute to think, to collect himself, before he could say anything. That was a lot to process in such a short amount of time, and the fact that Mimi had admitted she’d made a mistake in not telling him was a shock. Mimi _never_ admitted she was wrong, even if it was glaringly obvious.

He wanted to run away, go and hide either in his room or in the park or...or anywhere but Mimi’s house. But, as much as he wanted to leave, he didn’t want to leave things on a bad note with Mimi. John owed almost everything he had to Mimi, and he couldn’t really just leave her after that.

“I’m still going to San Francisco. You can’t make me not go,” John said finally. Somehow, he still managed to be the sarcastic, defiant fuck that he always was, and it made Mimi smile a little bit. She missed her sister, and having John around was very much like having Julia still here. They were almost heartbreakingly similar so much of the time.

“I’m not going to stop you,” she said gently, the feeling of being on the verge of tears starting to go away. “I just don’t want you to be stupid. I want to know why you’re so intent on leaving.”

“I don’t want to spend my whole life in this town where nothing happens. Nothing changes, nothing grows. We’re all stuck here, living, doing nothing, dying. It’s not the life I want, Mimi.”

“But you’re just going for the summer,” Mimi pointed out.

“That’s what I’m telling people, yeah. If I end up staying longer, though, don’t be surprised,” John shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll end up coming back.”

“I don’t want you making any stupid decisions, John. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“I’m not going to be stupid, Mimi.” John managed to crack a grin, though his eyes were still a little bit watery. “I’m taking Cyn with me. Can’t afford to be stupid.”

“Oh! You’re,” Mimi’s eyes widened in surprise, “you’re taking Cynthia with you.”

“She wants to come with me,” John shrugged, “and I’d like to take her.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be traipsing around the country with your girlfriend?” Mimi said, lips pursed, trying -- unsuccessfully, of course -- to hid her disapproval. “Seems a bit hasty.”

“Mimi, realistically, I’m going to end up marrying her,” John pointed out.

“Well, that sure is a lovely way to put it.”

“No, that’s not-” John sighed as Mimi tried to hide her laugh behind a cigarette. “That sounded worse than I wanted it to. I love her, I do, and I can’t picture my life without her.”

Whether that was because John loved Cynthia just _that_ much or it was because John felt like that was just what he had to do was left unspecified. Truth was, John didn’t really picture himself with a girl. Cyn, yes, Cyn was good. He did love her, but he just couldn’t think the same way about her as he could about some of the boys at school.

He felt bad, because Cynthia loved him. Cynthia would follow him to the ends of the earth and back, and John wouldn’t. He hated to admit it, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t love Cynthia the way she loved him.

“Well, not that it means anything, but I give you my permission to go to San Francisco with Cynthia.”

“Thanks, Mimi,” John laughed softly. “And of course your permission means _some_ thing to me. You have raised me for, what, fifteen years? That’s had some effect.”

“That’s a relief to hear,” Mimi lovingly tousled John’s hair. “Good to know I’ve had some sort of influence over you.”

“Oh, stop it,” John grinned, pushing his aunt’s hand away. “Don’t get all affectionate on me now.”

“Fifteen years,” Mimi called after him as he went towards the staircase. “Fifteen years and I’ve gotten eight hugs from you.”

“Well, if you’re extra nice to me,” John yelled back to her, “you might get a ninth one before I leave.”

“Oh, how tempting,” Mimi replied, a little bit of sarcasm trickling into her voice. Fifteen years of living with John hadn’t only had an effect on him. As much as she hated to admit it, he’d changed her too.

* * *

 

“You are not fucking going to San fucking Francisco,” Jim McCartney said angrily. He wasn’t slurring his words, really, but they were starting to run together a little bit.

“Oh, fuck off,” Paul said sarcastically, haphazardly shoving several shirts into his suitcase. “Fuck you.”

“This is no way to talk to your father!” Jim roared, waving his arms around angrily.

“I’ll talk to you however the hell I want to,” Paul spat.

“Well _you_ , you good-for-nothing, _you_ can go to San Francisco.”

“Good, that’s my plan.”

“But you can’t take my damn son away from me.”

“Oh? Oh, so Mike’s your son, but I’m not?”

“Damn _straight_ ,” Jim yelled, dropping the half-full bottle of beer he was holding on the ground, and it shattered everywhere.

“Well, shit, Dad, look what you’ve done now,” Paul rolled his eyes. He knew he was being a little risky, with the sarcasm and the talking back and everything, but he couldn’t help it. He was fed up with his father.

“My son will clean it up for me.”

“Why the fuck d’you keep calling Mike ‘your son?’ I’m your son too!” Not that Paul particularly wanted to claim that fact, but it _was_ true.

“My son Mike doesn’t disrespect me. My son Mike would do anything for his old man, like a son _should._ You, you ungrateful son of a bitch-”

“ _Don’t_ you talk about Mom like that,” Paul said angrily. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

“I’ll talk about that bitch however I’d like to, Paul. Whore up and left us here, I can talk how I’d like to.”

“She had fucking _cancer_ , jackass.” Paul was absolutely livid. He didn’t cry much, really, only when he got very angry, and he was almost to that point. Almost.

Paul didn’t hear the actual crying in the hallway until just then.

“Oh, shit, Mike,” he gasped, pushing past his father and wrapping his arms around his brother. “Mike, Mike, hush,” Paul murmured, trying to calm the boy’s shaking shoulders.

“Don’t fucking cry, kid,” Jim yelled, which only made Mike sob harder.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Paul snapped, which was enough to cause Jim to crack.

“I can say what I damn well please,” he roared, the palm of his hand connecting with Paul’s face with a crack. Paul stumbled backwards, his arms reaching up to his face. Jim mumbled something under his breath before storming down the stairs. Paul heard something that sounded like the TV being turned on a few seconds later.

“Shit, Mike, we’ve got to get out of here,” Paul mumbled as soon as he got his bearings back. “Get your things.”

“But Paul-”

“Mike. Have you packed like I told you to?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Get your suitcase. We’re going to Jane’s for the night.” Paul said sternly, stepping back into his room. He stuffed another pair of pants into his suitcase, stuck a thick wad of bills in his jacket pocket, andzipped his bag up. He walked out in the hallway and almost ran into his brother.

“Got enough stuff for a couple of weeks?” Paul asked, trying to force a grin onto his face.

“Yeah,” Mike nodded, but he looked absolutely terrified. “Paul, where exactly are we going to go?”

“Jane’s tonight,” Paul said, lugging both of their bags down the stairs, “and bus station in Topeka tomorrow morning. We’ll take that to San Francisco, where we’re going to stay with Aunt Edith for the summer.”

“Aunt Edith?” Mike asked, eyes wide.

“Dad’s sister. You met her once, when you were real little. Anyways,” Paul pushed the front door of their house open, “that’s the plan. I told her we were coming, but we’re gonna show up a bit earlier than I thought.”

“I’m scared, Paulie,” Mike said as they walked down the street.

“You don’t have to be, Mikey,” Paul said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “Just think. We’re going to have so much fun in San Francisco. You’ll get to see all kinds of things, and have all kinds of fun experiences.”

“You sound like my teacher.”

“Ouch,” Paul laughed softly, “that’s not good. But my point is, Mike, it’s going to be fun. It’s going to be much more fun that sitting around here with Dad for months.”

They walked in silence until they made it to Jane’s house. Paul knocked on the door and waited a little nervously for someone to answer.

“Paul? What are you doing here?” Jane opened the door, shocked.

“My dad. Real, real bad tonight. Can we stay here? Just for the night,” Paul said hastily, “just until we can catch a ride to Topeka.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jane said, opening the door to let Mike and Paul inside. “Paul, I told you that if your father ever got bad you could stay here.”

“Thank you,” Paul said gratefully, kissing her cheek as he stepped inside. “C’mon, Mikey,” he said, leading his brother into the living room. “Let’s get you set up on the couch. Better get all rested up for the big day tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Paul set out on the journey that will bring them together. (I may have made that sound more romantic than it actually is.)

“It’s too early for this,” Cynthia groaned, rubbing at her eyes sleepily. “I wish I was still sleeping.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the bus, doll,” John grinned, lifting her bags into the back of Mr. Meyers’ pickup truck. He bit back a laugh and ducked out of the way of Cynthia’s hand.

“Doll? Since when d’you get to call me _doll_?”

“Since when d’you get to call me Johnny?” John countered, and Cyn responded by sticking her tongue out at the boy.

“C’mon, lovebirds,” Mr. Meyers said gruffly. “We’ve got to get movin’ so I can get back to the farm ‘fore noon.”

“Thank you so much for driving us, Mr. Meyers,” Cynthia smiled as she scooted into the middle seat of the truck.

“Aw, it’s nothin’, Miss Powell,” Mr. Meyers smiled. “John’s been such a big help to me for years now. Guess I owe ‘im something.”

“That’s real nice of you to do, Mr. Meyers,” John said, climbing up next to Cynthia and shutting the car door after himself as the engine rattled to life. “Can’t thank you enough.” Cynthia couldn’t help but smile. John’s accent, which he worked so hard to pretend he didn’t have, was shining through. That only happened when he was drunk, tired, or talking to anybody over the age of fifty. He’d kill her if she ever said anything about it, but the accent was kind of adorable.

“Jus’ don’t go askin’ me fer money ‘fore y’all get on the bus, y’hear?” Mr. Meyers sounded serious, but a quick glance at his face revealed the twinkle in his eye and Cyn laughed softly. “I ain’t got any to spare.”

“‘Course not,” John smiled.

As they drove out of town and turned onto the highway to Des Moines, the bubble of excitement in Cynthia’s chest was replaced by nerves. She was really doing this, really leaving her town and her family behind. For a whole summer. And John didn’t even have a job, or a place to stay. What was she _doing?_

“You okay, Cyn?” John sounded concerned, and Cynthia shook herself out of her thoughts. She had John, she remembered, and nothing bad could happen to her as long as John was there. Sure, he was odd and distant sometimes, but he always seemed to come back to earth -- back to her -- if there was an issue. It was one of the few things that John could be counted on to do.

“Yeah,” she nodded, a soft grin spreading across her face. “I’m just tired, is all.”

“You can sleep in the car,” John pointed out. “Drive to Des Moines is ‘bout four and a half hours. That’s a nice nap right there.”

Cynthia slept the entire ride, and John and Mr. Meyers didn’t talk. Neither one wanted to wake Cyn up, and there was nothing they really had to talk about.

“Be careful, boy. Be safe,” Mr. Meyers said, and John was surprised by the emotion in his voice. Then again, though, Mr. Meyers had basically been John’s only father figure for eight years. And, with no kids of his own, John realized that Mr. Meyers saw him as a son of sorts. “Don’t want to come over to your aunt’s one day to find you’ve done somethin’ stupid and killed yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” John laughed softly. “Can’t afford to do anythin’ stupid when I’ve got Cyn with me.”

“Smart boy,” Mr. Meyers smiled. “Got your head on those shoulders right. Cynthia’s got a good one with you.”

John lost track of how many times both he and Cynthia thanked Mr. Meyers for driving between when they got out of the truck and got on the bus. Cynthia lost track of how many times Mr. Meyers just smiled and said he didn’t mind.

“Here we go, Cyn,” John smiled, several minutes after they’d gotten onto the bus. “We’re actually leaving.”

“The adventure of a lifetime, Johnny boy.” Cynthia managed a small smile before falling back asleep, her head resting against the bus window. With Cyn asleep and a long, long bus ride in front of him, John had more than enough time to think.

He had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to them when they arrived. He’d only heard from a friend that rent was cheap, and he had no idea if he’d be able to get a job. If he’d been traveling alone, none of this would’ve bothered him. It was the fact that he was with Cynthia, the fact that he felt somewhat responsible for her, that made John think differently. He didn’t want this summer to be the worst mistake of their lives.

John knew that, no matter what, if they returned to Iowa, things wouldn’t change that much, no matter what happened over the summer. He and Cyn would get married. Maybe not instantly, but before too long, they would. No matter that John was starting to think that maybe he was, at least a little bit, queer. John would get a job working as a farmhand somewhere, and take night classes at the community college if he could afford it. Cyn would work at her parents’ store until she got pregnant and had to stay home to watch the children.

John knew all this would happen because it was a familiar story. He saw it happening all around him. He knew it would happen because he and Cynthia had talked about their future. No matter how much they wistfully talked about moving somewhere new, starting over, this was what they had come back to. Cynthia didn’t want to leave their town, and John cared too much about her to leave her behind. It was more than that, though. John was afraid that if he left Cyn, he’d never find another woman. He’d probably never _want_ to find another woman. He’d live the rest of his life out as a lonely old queer, and that terrified him. As angsty as he was, John didn’t want to be different. At least, not the bad kind of different. Not the kind of different that gets you kicked out of homes and jailed in some places.

Then he thought about what he’d told Mimi. That he probably wouldn’t be home at the end of summer. God, he wished that could be true. He wished he could just stay gone forever. John would try as hard as he could to convince Cynthia to stay, but if she didn’t want to, he’d go home with her. He looked at the sleeping girl next to him, and smiled bittersweetly.

“If only you knew,” he whispered to her, so softly he wasn’t even sure if he’d said the words out loud, “if only you knew how much depends on you.”

* * *

 

“Goodbye, Jane,” Paul said, trying to keep his voice steady as he wrapped his arms around the girl. “Thanks so much for everything.” He was a little puzzled by Jane’s stony response, but he chalked it up to her just being tired. The night before, Paul had called his uncle. Though the man was often busy beyond belief with six kids and a baby on the way, he’d offered to Mike and Paul a ride to Topeka. Now, he was standing by his truck, glancing impatiently at the boys and at his watch. They needed to get going.

“Bye, Paul,” Jane mumbled, and Paul released her from his embrace but kept her at arms length.

“Are you okay?”

“I just,” Jane took a deep breath and closed her eyes, “if you’re going to be off in San Francisco the whole summer, I don’t really think you should be tied to me while you’re there.”

“I, uh,” Paul stammered, his hands dropping to his sides, “uh.”

“I don’t want to be a burden on you, or anything.”

“Jane, that’s ridiculous, you’re not a burden.”

“Well, obviously, or you’d be having some second thoughts about leaving me here!” Jane spat, and Paul took a step back, shocked by the sudden outburst.

“Is that what this is about?” Paul wasn’t angry, really, but he was a little bit hurt. “You don’t think I should be going, so you’re breaking up with me?”

“If you truly cared about me, Paul, you’d see that I can’t possibly live a whole summer without you being here!”

“If _you_ truly cared about _me_ ,” Paul -- who was angry now -- said, “you’d see that Mike and I can’t _survive_ a whole summer with my dad.”

“Just,” were those _tears_ in Jane’s eyes? “just go. When you come back -- _if_ you come back -- we can talk about this then.” Paul couldn’t think of any way to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he climbed in his uncle’s truck without a look back at Jane.

It was a silent drive to Topeka. Paul spent most of the drive wondering, for the first time since this crazy plan had popped into his head, if he was making the right decision.

“You look awfully young to be gettin’ on a bus to San Francisco by yourself there.” Mike froze as the bus driver talked to him.

“I’m, um,” Mike hesitated, “I’m not by myself. I’m with my brother.” Mike pointed at Paul, and the bus driver followed his finger and laughed.

“He don’t look too much older than you, boy.”

“I’m seventeen, thanks,” Paul said, walking over to where Mike stood.

“Only seventeen?” Paul was really starting to hate the bus driver. “Not a legal adult then.”

“We’re visiting family,” Paul said firmly. “And I’ll be a legal adult in nineteen days.”

“This bus ride ain’t nineteen days long, son.” The man had a cruel smirk on his face, and it took almost all of Paul’s self-restraint to refrain from screaming in frustration.

“Sir, please-”

“Lay off ‘im, Craig.” Another man, dressed in a bus driver’s uniform, came to Paul’s rescue. “Nothin’ wrong with takin’ a bus to visit family. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ seventeen. Nothin’ against the rules, neither.”

“Just givin’ ‘em a hard time, Todd,” Craig grumbled. “Go on, boys.” Paul and Mike scrambled up the stairs and sat as far in the back of the bus as they possibly could.

A couple of minutes later, Paul felt the bus start to roll forward, and his stomach lurched along with it. Not for the first time that day, he wondered if he was making the right decision. Though he’d managed to keep a calm face most of the morning, the fight with Jane had really gotten to him.

“How long are we on here for?” Mike asked, his nose already buried in a book. They’d barely left the bus station fifteen minutes ago and Paul was already bored out of his skull.

“Too long,” Paul groaned, leaning his head back in his seat. “Just try and get some sleep at some point, okay bud? And when we stop, get up to walk around a little bit. It’s easier on your legs.”

Mike nodded happily, and with that, Paul tried to settle in for the long trip ahead of him. If only he could get his nerves to stop bothering him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's taken me a LONG time to get John and Paul to actually meet but here we are!

“Here we are, Cyn.” John was grinning form ear to ear as he stepped off of the bus. “We made it.”

“It’s,” Cynthia took a deep breath and smiled brightly, “it’s amazing. God, it’s so _bright_ here. Not quite as warm as it is back home, though. But, _oh_ , it just feels like hope.” John had to admire her. The way the sunshine lit up her features, and the light breeze tousled her hair ever-so-perfectly. It was moments like these when John absolutely understood how people could be attracted to only women. Cynthia was fucking _gorgeous_.

“Well,” John hoisted his bag over his shoulder with one hand and picked up Cynthia’s with the other, “now we’ve got to go find a place to live.” Cynthia’s face fell slightly, and John thought that she must’ve finally been realizing exactly how random and unplanned this journey had been.

“That’s a good start,” Cynthia said, trying to plaster a confident smile on her face. “How exactly do we do that?”

“I have no idea,” John said, and started walking. Cynthia shook her head, tried to hide her nerves, and set off after him.

They hadn’t even managed to get out of the bus terminal before John stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jesus, John,” Cynthia said after running right into the man in front of her. “You can’t stop so suddenly on me.”

“Sorry, Cyn,” John mumbled distractedly. He was too busy staring at one of the boys getting off of a bus. He wasn’t hot, really, not like that one Texan from that one TV show -- the Monkees? -- that sometimes popped on when John had the TV on for background noise. He was -- well, he was pretty. That was the only way John could describe him. He had these big doe eyes, and eyebrows that were much too long but fit him perfectly, and even from a bit of a distance John could see a pair of perfectly pouty lips. Boys like this were the reason John found it so hard to stay with Cynthia sometimes.

“What are you staring at? C’mon,” Cyn gently nudged John. “We’ve got to go find a place to sleep tonight.” John didn’t want to take his eyes off of the boy -- who was now helping a younger boy carry a suitcase -- but, reluctantly, he did. Cynthia was right. Priority number one was taking care of Cynthia, which mean finding a place to sleep. Then he could worry about things like pretty boys.

They walked almost half an hour before Cynthia saw the first “for rent” sign.

“Oh, John, here’s a nice place,” she smiled, pointing out the sign.

“It is,” John admitted, “but that’s more than we can afford.”

“It’s only $35 a month, John.”

“That’s more than we can afford,” John said firmly. “Once you factor in food and bills and clothes, that’s just too much.

“Oh, fine,” Cyn sighed. “We’ll keep looking.”

It was right around Divisadero Street, almost two hours later, that John saw what he was looking for. There had been people milling around the streets the whole time they’d been walking, but these people were different. They were dressed different, the men had long hair, and the whole neighborhood just felt _different_. There was music playing, just about everyone was barefoot, and the smell of weed filled the air. John felt Cynthia tense up next to him, but he just smiled and kept going. This was the San Francisco he’d left Iowa for. They kept walking, an increasingly large smile growing on John’s face, until he saw it. 1300 Page Street had a sign in the window that said “Rooms For Rent. $10/Month.”

“Here we are, Cyn,” John breathed. “This is the place.”

“I dunno, John,” Cynthia eyed the building skeptically. “Are you sure?”

“It’s cheap, babe, and it’s right where I want to be.” John was already halfway up the steps. “Well? Are you going to come inside with me?”

“I don’t know if this is were _I_ want to be,” Cyn responded.

“I’ll make it up to you,” John promised as Cynthia climbed up the steps to where John was standing.

“Oh, you will, will you?” Cynthia smiled teasingly.

“Guarantee it,” John smirked, pressing a kiss to Cynthia’s neck before she could say anything else.

“John!” Cynthia laughed, a little shocked, and gently pushed John away. “We’re in public, Johnny.”

“Well, then, just wait until I get you inside, doll.” John knew he was acting like this to make up for the boy -- that god _damn_ boy -- that he’d been so entranced by earlier. Even if Cyn didn’t know about it, he felt bad. Guilty. He felt the need to make it up to her.

“Well,” Cynthia was blushing and looked a little flustered, “let’s hurry up and get inside.”

They got the room -- the last one -- with two months’ rent up front.

“Look at us.” John had his arms wrapped around Cynthia and they were standing at the window, looking at the street below them. Their room had come with only a mattress sitting on the floor, but it was perfect. John couldn’t believe that they were really in San Francisco. “We’re here, Cynthia. We made it.”

“Mhmm,” Cynthia agreed. “Now, how about we pick up where we left off outside?”

* * *

 

“Okay, Mike, should I knock, or do you want to?” Paul asked as he set their bags down in front of Aunt Edith’s door. He was drop-dead tired. It’d taken them almost two hours to get to Aunt Edith’s house.

“Oh! Oh! I want to!” Mike said excitedly, before knocking loudly on the door.

“Hush, Mike,” Paul scolded gently, “you don’t want to make such a racket.”

“Ugh,” Mike groaned, right as the door opened.

“Yes?” The woman Mike assumed to be his Aunt Edith looked like a carbon copy of his father, but with softer cheeks and more feminine eyes.

“Hello, Aunt Edith,” Paul smiled nervously.

“Oh! Oh!” Edith said excitedly. “You’re here already! Boys, it’s so good to see you!” She wrapped Paul up in a smothering hug, and then Mike, before practically yanking them inside.

“You have a lovely home,” Paul said, eyes wide as he looked around the house. It was decorated plainly but not so plain it looked boring. For some reason, it reminded Paul even more of his father. Back when Jim had been happy.

“Oh, thank you, dearie,” Edith smiled kindly, leading the boys to the kitchen. “Can I get you boys something to drink?”

“Do you have Coke?” Mike said excitedly, climbing into one of the chairs around the kitchen table. “I just love Coke.”

“Mike, don’t be rude,” Paul hissed under his breath.

“It’s no bother, Paul,” Edith responded. “I just happen to have another bottle of Coke in the refrigerator, just for you, Mike. How about you, Paul?”

“Oh, I’m okay, thanks.” Paul forced a smile has Edith set the bottle of Coke in front of Mike, who grinned and licked his lips.

“Have a seat, dearie. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.” Paul sat down next to his brother, and Edith followed suit. “Now. Tell me everything that’s happened since I left.”

“Everything?” Paul asked, eyes wide. Edith had left Iowa the year after he'd been born. That was sixteen years of drama and backstory to catch her up on.

“We’ve got nothing but time. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?”

Paul thought that over for a second. He did want to find his own place to live as soon as possible. On the other hand, though, a chance to sit down and relax without the stress of trying to figure out what his next move would be was very appealing. “Well. Your sister? Millie? She left for New York City about three months ago-”

Four hours later, Paul felt much less uncomfortable. Mike had left the kitchen three hours ago, after Edith showed him his room, and no doubt had his nose buried in a book.

“It’s been lovely catching up, Aunt Edith, but I’ve got to get going.”

“Where on earth are you going?”

“Find a place to live,” Paul shrugged.

“You’re ditching your brother here?”

“I’m going to come and visit at least once a week,” Paul defended himself. “I need some space. I’ve been his father for almost four years. I just want to be a teenager.”

“Being a teenager isn’t living on your own in San Francisco,” Edith said gently.

“Please. Just, let me do this,” Paul said firmly. “I’ve been planning this for months.”

“I can’t stop you from going,” Edith sighed. “But I want you to know that you can always come back and stay here.”

“Thanks,” Paul smiled gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

Two hours later, Paul was regretting his decision to try and strike out for himself. He had money saved up -- almost $250 -- but it didn’t seem to be enough. Everywhere was just too expensive, or in a part of town he didn’t like. He was about to give up when he stumbled across 1300 Page Street. There was a sign in the window that said “Rooms For Rent. $10/Month.”

“This is it,” he whispered to himself, climbing up the stairs.

There were no more rooms left for rent.

“Oh. Oh, okay,” Paul said, trying to hide how crushed he was when the landlord said there was nothing left.

“Sorry, kid,” the landlord shrugged.

“S’alright,” Paul murmured before walking out of the door. In fact, it _wasn’t_ all right. Paul had nowhere to go -- it was too late to try and get back to Edith’s apartment -- and no idea of where anything was. Sure, he could probably get a hotel room if he tried, but those were expensive. Besides, he didn’t even know where the closest one would be. It was right then that Paul saw a bench that looked fairly clean and didn’t have anyone else sitting on it. Wearily, Paul heaved his bag onto the bench and sat down next to it.

 _Shit_ , was this really what his life had come to? Was he really going to be sleeping on a fucking bench in San Francisco? He put his head in his hands and was trying not to sob when someone gently tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, kid, you all right?” The stranger, a man with kind but mischievous eyes and long-but-not-too-long auburn locks, smiled kindly. There was a lady with him, a pretty lady with long blonde hair, but she didn’t look quite as...quite as mesmerizing.

“No,” Paul sniffled and shook his head. “Can’t find a place to stay.”

“I’m John,” the man said, sticking out his hand and sitting down next to Paul. Awkwardly, Paul shook John’s hand and shuffled over to make room for him.

“John,” the pretty woman sighed, “we can’t spend too much time here. I’ve got cold groceries here!”

“It’s okay, Cyn. I won’t be too long,” John said distractedly. Paul had absolutely no idea what to make of the situation. “Now, then, tell me about yourself.”

“That’s, um,” Paul said nervously, “I’m Paul. I’m from Kansas.”

They clicked. They talked for -- God, it felt like they’d talked for hours but Cyn was still holding her grocery bag and sighing impatiently, so it couldn’t have been that long.

“John, we have to get going.”

“I can’t just leave Paul out here to sleep on a bench by himself!”

“It’s okay, John,” Paul forced -- yet another -- smile, “I’ll live.”

“How about you stay with us?” John suggested, and Paul’s eyebrows rose until they looked like they might pop off of his face. John was quick to reassure the boy. “Just for tonight. Until you find another place to stay.”

“Well,” Paul sighed. He didn't want to take charity from a man who was basically a stranger, but he also didn't want to sleep on a bench. Besides, he didn’t know what it was about John, but he wanted to stay with him. “Okay. Just until I find another place, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while (I'm so sorry. Writer's block is a pain in the ass). Here, have some sort-of flirty John to make up for it.

The boy from the bus station was asleep in John’s apartment. That _god_ damn boy that John had been so mesmerized with for the whole damn day was asleep in his apartment. His name was Paul. He was from Kansas. He’d dropped his younger brother off at their aunt’s house earlier. His girlfriend had broken up with him two days earlier.

When he slept, he looked exactly like what John imagined angels too look like.

Beautiful.

Especially with that early morning light peeking in through the window and -- oh, Christ. Here John was, sleeping next to his girlfriend on a mattress on the floor of their new apartment in San Francisco and all he could think about was Paul. Of all the things that had happened the day before, Paul was the only one John’s brain would focus on.

“Johnny, are you okay?” Cynthia mumbled, half awake.

“Oh, yeah,” John responded, his lips tangled in Cynthia’s hair. He forced his attention away from Paul. Was it creepy to be staring at a boy that he barely knew that was asleep on his floor? He thought that yes, it probably was, but it was the boy from the bus station. That felt different to him, for some reason. Paul seemed to make everything different. “Sorry, Cyn. Brain won’t shut off.”

“Just checking, Johnny,” Cynthia murmured, pressing a kiss to the base of John’s neck before turning over and pulling a blanket over her head. John laughed softly, but before very long his feelings of amusement were replaced with guilt. He was mooning over a boy he barely knew when he had a beautiful girl who loved him in his bed. (On his mattress? What was the right terminology if you didn't have a fucking bed?)

Though, really, Cynthia was more than just a beautiful girl. Above all, she was the closest friend John had. She was also, in a way, his ticket to life. An all-American, TV-show-perfect life. And was he really willing to risk throwing that ticket away over the bus station boy, who probably was just as straight as the rows of corn back home?

John’s answer came when he saw Paul sit up and stretch sleepily.

He was willing to risk _everything_ just for a chance to kiss that goddamn boy.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” John said quietly, laughing softly when Paul jumped a little bit.

“Oh,” Paul laughed in relief -- it made John’s heart ache to see -- when he realized it was just John. He looked like he was about to say something, and then caught a glimpse of the sleeping Cynthia and quickly clamped his mouth shut.

“Don’t worry about Cyn,” John said softly, gently sliding his arm out from under Cynthia and sitting up. “Girl usually sleeps like a goddamn rock.”

“Good to know,” Paul smiled shyly. God, John just wanted to slam him against a wall and kiss him and-- “Um, John?”

“Wha-?” John shook himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry, must’ve zoned out for a second.” He flashed a grin at Paul, who blushed a little bit in response.

“I asked if you had anything for breakfast.” Paul seemed to panic when John didn’t say anything immediately. “I could find a store or something, don’t wanna eat your food if you don’t want me to. And that’s understandable, I’m just staying here a night or two, and-” 

“Paul.” John held back laughter yet again. It wasn’t _that_ funny, really, but the boy was just so adorably flustered. “We’re friends. You can eat some of my food.”

“Well, I’m not sure if we’re friends, really-”

“Stop rambling.” John wasn’t even trying to hold back laughter at this point. He was giggling softly, and Paul’s cheeks flushed red. John stopped, worried he’d gone to far, but breathed a sigh of relief when Paul started to laugh softly.

“I am rambling, aren’t I?” Paul grinned shyly. John just nodded, he was laughing too hard to form actual words, and Paul hung his head sheepishly.

“It’s,” John took a deep breath and tried to control his laughter, “it’s alright.” John stood up and walked towards the kitchen, Paul following closely -- John didn’t think it was close enough -- behind him. “Cyn bought eggs,” John said as he shuffled through the refrigerator.

“Oh, I can make eggs,” Paul volunteered eagerly.

“Wow, a man who likes to cook,” John laughed. “If Cynthia didn’t have me, she’d be all over you.”

“Too bad I’ve got Ja-” Paul started off in the same joking manner, but his face scrunched up when he began the girl’s name. That must be the bitch that’d broken up with him earlier.

“Well, you’d better get crackin’,” John grinned, trying to lighten the mood as he set the carton of eggs and some butter on the counter.

“Guess so.” Paul dug through the cabinets trying to find a bowl, but ended up with only a pan. “This all you have?” he asked, waving the pan in front of John.

“Have to get more stuff,” John shrugged in response.

“D’you have a fork or plates or anythin’?” Paul set the pan on the stove and turned the heat on.

“Cyn got some at the store, I think,” John said quietly as he searched through the paper bag that was sitting on the counter next to the stove. “Ah! Here we go.” He proudly held out two forks.

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Paul grinned, taking a fork from John and carving out a chunk of butter.

“Good,” John smiled as Paul cracked a few of the eggs in the pan and began to scramble them.

“Scrambled eggs,” he hummed under his breath, “oh my baby, how I love your legs.”

“What are you singing?” John poked Paul’s shoulder with his fork in an effort to distract himself from laughing.

“Nothing.” Paul’s face had instantly become red as a tomato.

“Oh, it was something, I think.” John was grinning from ear to ear.

“S’just a song my mom and I used to sing for my brother when he was younger,” Paul mumbled. His face was burning.

“Is that all there is to it?” John asked, genuinely curious. Paul had a nice voice, and that wasn’t really helping John control himself around the boy.

“Well, there’s one more line,” Paul said hesitantly.

“And do I get to hear it?” Paul looked at him skeptically, and John was quick to defend himself. “You sound really nice, Paul.” Paul glared at him, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

“Scrambled eggs,” Paul began again, “oh my baby how I love your legs. Not as much as I love scrambled eggs.”

It was then that both boys smelled something burning.

“Well, shit,” Paul sighed. “I’ve burned our breakfast.”

* * *

 

 

“You two need jobs.”

“Oh, no, Cynthia,” John whined, “don’t say that.”

“Being adult isn’t all fun and games, Johnny,” Cyn laughed.

“D’ _you_ have a job, Cyn?”

“Making sure you don’t kill yourself is a full time job.” John opened his mouth to protest, but a grinning Cynthia cut him off. “There’s a diner a few blocks down. They’re hiring.”

“I’m gonna have to eat there all the damn time to see you in a waitress uniform, aren’t I?” John laughed, and Cynthia blushed.

“You’d better watch yourself, Mr. Lennon.”

Paul watched the display quietly, from the sidelines. The trio were eating lunch on the same bench Paul had been about to sleep on the night before, eating sandwiches Cyn had made. Watching Cynthia and John reminded him of when he was at home, watching a thunderstorm from miles away. He wasn’t in any imminent danger, but he got the sense things could go to hell real quick. Beneath the veneer of constant flirting and adoration, Paul felt like John was hiding something. Something big.

“What about you, Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“Jobs, silly. You can’t live with us without having a job,” Cynthia laughed.

“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be staying with you though,” Paul shrugged. He hated to admit it -- he hated the thought of having to leave John. After less than a day, he'd gotten ridiculously attached to the older boy -- but he couldn’t stay with them forever. “Feel kind of bad, intruding on your space and all.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John grinned. “You’re a kid. Can’t leave you out on your own.”

“‘M not a kid,” Paul grumbled.

“You’re seventeen. That makes you a kid,” Cynthia piped up. “At least, in the eyes of the government it does.”

“Oh, fuck the government.”

“Oooh, you’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” John grinned, narrowing ducking out of the way of Paul’s swat. “Feisty!”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, you wish you could,” John smirked, and for some reason the thought got Paul’s heart racing. After almost a day of knowing John, he was starting to get used to the older boy’s constant flirty comments, but this was a new level of bold. Paul must’ve looked concerned or something, because John’s tone turned from joking to -- hurt, almost -- slightly reassuring as he said, “Don’t get all beat up about it. It was a joke, Macca.”

“I wish it wasn’t,” Paul almost said.

“No shit, John,” he actually said.

“Well, now _that’s_ settles,” Cynthia said sarcastically.

“Oh hush, Cyn,” John rolled his eyes. “You know you’re the only one I’ve got eyes for.” Paul felt like _that_ was an absolute lie.

“Anyways,” Cynthia smiled, “jobs. Paul, any ideas?”

“I could work at the diner,” Paul suggested. “Used to work at one back home.”

“Is that why yore so good at scrambled eggs?” John asked with genuine curiosity. It amazed Paul how John could be so genuinely curious about so many unimportant things.

“John, I burned them the first time I tried.”

“They were good the second time though!” John protested. “And I was distracting you a little bit the first round.”

“You know, you’re the only one who can’t make scrambled eggs, Johnny,” Cynthia pointed out, and John just sighed.

“Yeah, okay. I’m an awful cook.” They sat in silence -- the first time John had shut the hell up since breakfast -- until John piped up again a few minutes later. “I’m goin’ to work at a record shop.”

“Are there any hiring?” Paul asked, almost grateful to hear John’s voice again.

“Dunno,” John shrugged. “But I’ll find one and work there.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Cynthia said, standing up and dusting off her pants. It was obvious that she knew John had made up his mind and that it’d be impossible to try and get him to change it. “Paul and I are gonna go as at the diner.”

“No, Paul’s going to help me find a record store.”

“He’s going to come with me to the diner where I know there are actual jobs, John.”

“He’s going to help me find a job. Nobody could turn down face as cute as his.”

“Y’know,” Paul spoke up, “Paul can hear you.”

“So he can make up his own mind,” John said smugly, “and tell us with his own mouth that he wants to help me find a record shop.” Cynthia turned to look at Paul with one eyebrow raised.

“I would like to find a record shop,” Paul admitted, and Cyn sighed. “But ask if the diner could use another cook, will you?”

“Sure, Paul. Have fun, boys. And John?”

“Yes, Cyn?”

“Please don’t buy too many records. We need that money for things like food.”

“Don’t worry,” John smiled, and Cynthia walked away and left him and Paul sitting on the bench. “So _I_ can’t buy records. But that doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“Well then, John,” Paul said, jumping up from the bench. “Let’s go buy some records, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	7. Chapter 7

“A record shop, huh?” Paul asked as he walked with John.

“Mhmm,” John said matter-of-factly. “I like records.”

“Oh, wow, really?” Paul asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I _never_ could’ve guessed that.”

“Fuck off,” John rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to shove Paul playfully. That was something girls did to flirt with boys. Not something boys did to flirt with boys. John settled for popping Paul on the shoulder, and after seeing Paul laugh in much the same way Cyn laughed when John flirted with her, he decided it was good enough. “Why do I even bother keepin’ you around?” Paul considered this for a minute, and just when John realized he’d sounded too serious, the other boy spoke up.

“I’m not really sure, if I’m honest,” Paul shrugged.

“Oh, for the love of -” John sighed. “Christ, Paul. For the last time. We’re _friends_.”

“We barely-”

“Paul. Shut your trap. I like havin’ you around.” John glanced sideways to see Paul staring sadly down at his feet. “How are you gonna walk if you’re starin’ down at your feet?”

“I’ll probably trip over my own feet,” Paul shrugged, and less than five seconds later he’d done just that.

“Jesus, Paul, are you okay?” John asked, panicked.

“Oh, god,” Paul sighed from where he lay on the ground, and then he burst into laughter.“Um,” John looked at Paul hesitantly, offering a hand to help him up, “Paul?”

“Christ,” Paul laughed, grasping onto John’s outstretched arm and pulling himself up. “I can’t fucking _believe_ I just did that.”

“Well,” John laughed hesitantly and patted his friend on the back, “at least you’re not hurt.”

“At least I’m not hurt.” Paul was grinning as he dusted his ass off.

“Oh, you missed,” John reached towards Paul’s crotch to dust it off -- god, dirt showed up well on those olive-green, almost-too-tight trousers -- before he stopped himself. “Does the green of your pants match the green of your shirt?” Paul looked down at his shirt -- orange and green plaid -- and laughed softly.

“I guess it does, doesn’t it?”

“Did your mommy buy it for you?” John asked mockingly, and as soon as the words left his lips he realized he’d made a mistake. Paul kept a grin on his face, but it looked like a carefully practiced one that Paul just plastered on when he had to. John was very familiar with the concept, and instantly corrected himself. “Shit, Paul, ‘m’sorry.”

“Um,” Paul dusted off the area around his crotch that was dirty in an effort to distract himself, “you’re sorry for what, now?”

“Your mom.” Was John going too far? He didn’t know Paul well enough for this, but it was too late for him to back out at this point. “Something happened to her, right?”

“She, um, passed away, yeah. Few years ago.” Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet. John suppressed the urge to tell him not to trip again. “How’d you know?”

“I, um.” Well, fuck. Now John was the one feeling awkward. “I know the feeling.”

More awkward silence.

“I’m sorry about your mom.” John said it, though he knew how empty the words were. He hated when people said they were sorry. It was just two empty words that were supposed to mean something but didn’t mean a _goddamn_ thing. Paul turned those big doe eyes towards John, and the older boy saw understanding in them.

“‘M’sorry about yours.” John forced a grin and mumbled a “thank-you” before the awkward silence set in again. Thankfully, John saw a record store just a few shops down.

“Well, we’re in luck, aren’t we?” John grinned, hurrying up his pace and ducking into the store. He took a deep breath in, expecting the familiar smell of old books to greet him. That’s what the record store back home smelled like. This one had traces of the scent, but the predominant smell was weed.

“Oh,” Paul stepped in after John and wrinkled his nose. “Smells...funny.”

“Welcome to San Francisco,” an unfamiliar voice said almost directly in John’s ear. Surprised, John jumped, almost smacking the man in the face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” John said hastily, turning to see who he’d almost hit.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” the man smiled. “No harm done. Now, can I help you two boys find anything?” John noticed that what he’d first thought o be a plain cigarette grasped in the man’s fingertips was, in fact, a blunt. The guy was probably higher than a damn kite.

“Yeah, actually,” John put on a pleasant smile. “We’re looking for the owner.”

“You’re speaking to him.” Somehow, impossibly, the man’s smile had grown even wider. “I’m Ritchie Starkey, of Ritchie’s Records.”

“Oh. Um, Mr. Starkey-”

“Ritchie, please.” Ritchie took a drag and John felt Paul recoil from the smoke.

“We were wondering if you were hiring,” John said hopefully.

“I’m always hiring,” Ritchie laughed. “Feels like I hire somebody one day, and then three days later they’re quittin’. Always somethin’ about ‘free spirits’ and ‘fuck the system.’ One catch, though.”

“What’s that?” For the first time since stepping in the store, Paul spoke.

“You’ve gotta be eighteen.” Ritchie eyed Paul, and John felt his heart sink a little bit. He wanted to work wherever Paul was working.

“I’l be eighteen in two weeks,” Paul said hopefully.

“Close enough for me,” Ritchie shrugged. “When can you two start?”

“Um, whenever works for you, really.” While Ritchie considered this, John turned to Paul and grinned.

“We’ve got jobs!” Paul mouthed excitedly, before Ritchie turned back to face the boys.

“Tomorrow’d be nice. We open at 9, so be here by 8:30, preferably.”

“Sounds fantastic,” John grinned. “We’ll see you at 8:30 tomorrow.”

“One last thing,” Ritchie said just before John and Paul made it out the door. “What are your names?”

* * *

 

“How’d the search go?” Cynthia asked a few hours later. She, Paul, and John were sitting on the floor, eating the cheapest Chinese food John had been able to find. He and Cynthia’d never had Chinese food before -- there was a bit of a shortage of Chinese immigrants in Iowa -- but Paul had convinced them to try it.

“Fantastic,” John said around a mouthful of egg roll. “God, Paul, this is fantastic.”

“I didn’t make it,” Paul said, trying not to laugh. “But I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” 

“Johnny, that’s not what I asked you,” Cynthia smiled.

“Hmm?” John turned to look at Cynthia, a half-eaten egg roll raised almost all the way to his mouth. “What’d you ask me?”

“I asked how your search for a place to work went.”

“Oh. Paulie and I got jobs at a record shop a few streets down,” John said, before quickly shoving the rest of the egg roll in his mouth to avoid conversation.

“Paulie?” Paul said indignantly, which caused John to laugh and almost choke on the egg roll. “M’name’s not _Paulie_.”

“Good luck getting rid of that nickname,” Cyn smiled knowingly. “You either stick with Paulie or come up with something else for him to call you.”

“The only person who’s allowed to call me ‘Paulie’ is my brother.” It used to be only his family that could call him Paulie, but then his mom had died and...Paul forced himself to stop thinking about that. “I like Macca, though.”

“Macca it is, then,” John smiled triumphantly.

“Anyways,” Cynthia said, “I thought you were going to work at the diner with me, Paul.”

“Yeah,” Paul shrugged. “This just seemed more exciting, I guess.” Well, really, it was the prospect of working with John that was exciting. Working at a diner where Paul got to cook for hours on end was tempting, yes, but something about being around John for hours at a time was even more appealing.

“That makes sense. George,” John narrowed his eyes at the mention of another man, “George is the owner of the diner, John, and he asked if I could start tonight,” Cynthia said brightly as she stood up. “So I have to work the six to midnight shift. Can you two manage on your own?”

“I dunno, Cyn,” John said doubtfully. “Six whole hours without you. D’you think we’ll make it, Macca?”

“It’ll be tough,” Paul responded. “But I think we can handle it. Thanks for the concern, Cynthia.”

“You two are just too much,” Cynthia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “The two most sarcastic fucks I know.”

“Have fun at work, Cyn,” John smiled, standing up to give Cynthia a hug and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Thanks, Johnny. Bye, Paul,” Cynthia smiled, waving to Paul. Paul grinned and waved back as Cyn stepped out of the room.

“Well, looks like it’s just the two of us now,” John grinned. Paul tried desperately to ignore how gorgeous John looked with a wide grin and his auburn hair messed up. “Any wild ideas on how to pass the time?”

“We could get drunk,” Paul suggested halfheartedly. He was a good kid -- straight A’s, class president, teacher’s pet, and he’d only gotten tipsy once -- but something about being out on his own really made him want to take some risks.

“I thought you were a goody two-shoes.” John sounded slightly impressed.

“Um, yes. I am.” Paul’s face was burning a little bit. “But I happen to know vodka goes nicely in lemonade.”

“Well, well, well,” John smiled mischeviously. “Just so happens there’s a bottle of vodka in the cabinet above the refrigerator.”

“Then all we’ve got to find is some lemonade.” Paul’s heart was racing. This was new, forbidden territory. It was much different than the time somebody spiked the lemonade at winter formal and gotten most of the school tipsy. This was actively planned. “If we get lemons and sugar I can make it.”

“Oh, god. You can make scrambled eggs, lemonade, and you’re cute?” Paul’s heart was somehow beating even faster. Was John, unbelievably attractive John with a girlfriend, hitting on him? “Why the hell would anyone ever break up with you?”

“Oh, you know,” Paul smiled bitterly, “I guess lemonade isn’t for everyone.”

It took Paul almost an hour and a half to make the lemonade. It wouldn’t’ve taken so long if John hadn’t insisted on singing along to almost every song that played on the cheap radio they’d bought with the lemons and sugar. Paul could barely contain his laughter as John made an effort to sing off-key.

“It’s done,” Paul said, proudly setting the pitcher of lemonade on the counter. “Taste test?”

“I trust you,” John grinned, grabbing the bottle of vodka and pouring some of it into the pitcher. He dug through the cabinets for some glasses, and poured two of them.

“Here’s to getting drunk off lemonade,” Paul smiled, clinking his glass against John’s. They took a sip, and John’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Damn, Macca,” John smiled, “This is good lemonade.”

“I feel like the vodka might have something to do with it,” Paul smirked. He drank his glass quickly -- it tasted like lemonade, but with a small hint of what Paul imagined gasoline tasted like -- and poured himself another one. Before he knew it, Paul was three glasses in and very, very giggly.

“Have you _never_ had alcohol before?” John asked incredulously, and Paul shook his head, and laughed.

“I mean,” Paul was grinning very widely, “I mean, one time? One time I had some spiked lemonade at a dance one time.”

“Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound?” John had a look of amusement plastered across his face.

“Y’know, I would really like to maybe hug you right now I think,” Paul said. He felt weird, like maybe he was made of jelly, and more confident than he’d ever been before.

“Do you even know what you’re sayin’, boy?” John’s accent was coming out. Paul thought it was adorable.

“Of course I know what I’m saying. I _am_ saying it.” Paul was giggling again.

“You’re a cute drunk. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“No,” Paul laughed even harder, “because I have never ever been drunk ever!” He thought over John’s words for another minute. “But I like it when you call me cute.”

“You’ve had too much to drink, Macca.” John sounded concerned, and Paul couldn’t understand why. Hadn’t John been flirting with him? Why wouldn’t John let Paul flirt with him?”

“I have _not_.”

“Yes, you have,” John said gently. “Drink some water. Are you feeling tired?”

“I don’t want to sleep!” Well, no, now that he thought about it, Paul _was_ feeling tired, but he just wanted to stay up and talk to John. “I wanna talk to you.”

“You should sleep, Paul,” John said more firmly. He pushed Paul towards the mattress, where Paul collapsed in a heap.

The last thing he heard as he fell asleep was John singing faintly. All Paul managed to hear was that it was something about being happy together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Paul finally act on their impulses

“Paul,” John said softly, nudging the sleeping boy with his foot. When Paul didn’t answer, John nudged him a little harder. “Paul. Get up.”

“Don’t wanna,” Paul grumbled sleepily, “Wanna sleep.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” John said, mockingly sympathetic. “I’d like to sleep more as well, but we have a job to get to.” Paul sat straight up when John said “job.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Paul said loudly. “Fuck, we’ve got a job, don’t we?”

“Mhmm,” John said smugly. “And your slightly hungover ass has got to get the hell out of bed if we want to be there on time.”

“Oh, he’s awake!” Cynthia said excitedly, stepping in from the kitchen. “The great Paul McCartney awakens from his slumber!”

“Leave me be,” Paul said grumpily.

“No can do, Paul,” Cynthia smiled. “You have to be out of the house in fifteen minutes or you’re going to be late.”

“What time _is_ it?” Paul asked, climbing out of bed and trudging over to his suitcase.

“Seven forty-five,” John responded, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. All John had on was a pair of boxers, and he enjoyed seeing Paul’s eyes raking over his shirtless figure.

“It won’t take us fifteen minutes to walk there,” Paul whined, pulling out a pair of blue jeans and a button down shirt.

“Oh, that’s much better than your matchy-matchy green pants from yesterday,” John snarked, and narrowly managed to duck out of the way of a pair of trousers Paul threw at him. “Oh, someone’s touchy about his previous fashion choices, isn’t he?”

“At least I’m not standing around half-naked,” Paul shot back, earning a little cheer of approval from Cyn.

“He’s right, Johnny,” Cynthia smiled sweetly as John glared at her and Paul hurried into the bathroom to chage, “You should put some pants on. And maybe even a shirt. And, come to think of it, a haircut wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Look at you, tryin’ to boss me around,” John laughed a little, setting his toothbrush down on top of the rest of this things. “I’m not cutting my hair, Cyn. The long hair look is one that’s started to grow on me.”

“Oh, all right. But when my parents write asking for pictures, I just don’t know what I’m going to tell them.” Cynthia pressed a kiss to John’s cheek before slinging her purse across her shoulder. “Now, I’ve got to work until seven tonight.”

“You’re workin’ such long days, Cyn,” John complained. It wasn’t _really_ so bad though, he thought, because that meant more time with Paul. “Seems cruel to make you work for so long.”

“I get an hour for lunch and three half-hour breaks,” Cynthia defended herself. “Besides, it’s just for a week or so. Until George can hire more people.”

“Well, have fun at work, doll,” John grinned, kissing Cyn on the forehead. “Don’t work so much you just want to sleep as soon as you get home. Believe it or not,” John spun Cynthia around so she was facing him, his hands on her shoulders, “I do enjoy spending time with you.”

“Never could’ve guessed,” Cyn smiled and kissed John quickly. “But I’ve got to go or I’m going to be late. Good luck getting to work on time! Love you!”

“Love you too, Cyn.” John smiled warmly as he watched her leave.

“She has to work a lot, doesn’t she?” John jumped when he heard Paul speak from right behind him. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” Paul laughed.

“Dick,” John mumbled under his breath, laughing when Paul shoved him playfully.

“Was that an insult or a request?” Paul smirked. John’s breath hitched in his throat, but he fought to keep a more or less neutral expression on his face.

“My, my, we’re flirty this morning, aren’t we?” he managed, winking at Paul in the way he knew would make most girls get on their knees right then and there. Tragically, though, Paul seemed unfazed.

“Well,” Paul’s voice was so low and quiet and _hot_ it made John’s skin tingle. “I’m not the one standing in my boxers, am I?” John swallowed and tried to compose himself desperately, though he wasn’t very successful.

“I think,” his voice cracked, “I think you’re still a little tipsy.”

“We both know I’m not,” Paul’s voice was barely audible, but that was okay as the two boys were unbelievably close. And then, before John could process anything more, they were kissing. Holy _fuck._ John was kissing that goddamn boy from the bus station. He was kissing the perfectly pouty pair of lips he’d been fantasizing over for days. He was _kissing_ the boy from the bus station. And, more importantly, the boy from the bus station was kissing him back.

“Holy...” Paul said as they broke apart. John’s mind, completely devoid of any normal reactions, only managed to form two thoughts.

“You’re a way better kisser than Cynthia.” John took a breath to try and steady himself. “Can we do that again?”

“I-I would,” Paul was just as flustered as John, “I would fucking _love_ to, but you need to get dressed.”

“Oh, but why?” John was slowly regaining his cocky self-assurance. “Why get dressed when you could just take off my boxers right now and we could have even _more_ fun?”

“That’s,” Paul bit his lip and looked regretfully up at John, “tempting, _very_ tempting, but we’ve got ten minutes to get you dressed and also to find something for breakfast.”

“Oh, look at you,” John sighed, kissing Paul -- softly, quickly -- before digging through his suitcase. “Being all logical. I don’t like it.”

“It is a shame,” Paul sighed. “If I was any stupider, I think we’d both be half naked at this point.”

“Well, dammit, Paul. How’s a man supposed to get anything done when you keep teasin’ him like that.” Paul only smirked in response and John sighed. “Can I have one more kiss? Pretty please?”

“Aw, look at you,” Paul said, stepping dangerously close to John. “Begging.”

“Looks like I’m about to get my way, though,” John murmured, moments before his lips met Paul’s again.

They didn’t have time for breakfast.

* * *

 

 

“You two were great today!” Ritchie said excitedly as he helped John and Paul sort through the new crates of records that had just arrived. “I’ve never had two employees know so much about the music they’re selling.”

“Well, what can I say,” John put on his charming smile, “there’s not much to do where I’m from. Might as well learn about something that interests me.” Jesus, everything John did just made Paul want to kiss him again.

“D’you think you can do the same hours tomorrow? Actually, d’you think you can do the same hours Monday through Friday every week?”

“Of course, yeah,” Paul smiled.”I like working here.” Paul genuinely meant it. He loved giving people recommendations and getting recommendations from the customers. Besides that, the general populace of San Francisco was so very chill. Though he was normally fairly shy, he felt like he could talk to just about any of the customers for hours. Everyone was, for the most part, calm and mellow. It was probably the weed, he thought, but if that was what weed did to you, then it couldn’t be so bad.

He could also tell John was having a fun time working for Ritchie. He could hear the older boy singing along to records, charming people into buying more records, and just having a good time. Paul liked being able to spend so much time around John. He was a little unsure of himself because of what had happened earlier -- John was still dating Cynthia, and Paul didn’t want to come between them -- but he had fucking loved it. When he’d been with Jane, it’d been fun. Kissing her had been _fantastic_ , but safe. Kissing John had been dangerous and exciting and absolutely fucking perfect.

“Macca?” John said, and it was obvious that wasn’t the first time he’d said it. “Macca, you’re zoning out. It’s time to go.”

“Already? Wow, okay.” Paul set the records he’d been cradling down carefully and started to follow John towards the front of the shop.

“Actually, hold on,” John said, and stopped in his tracks. Paul wasn’t able to stop in time and ran right into the older man’s back.

“Christ, John,” he grumbled as John turned around and headed towards the section of the store where Ritchie had the record players.

“Which one do you like?” John asked Paul as he looked over the various record players.

“Um?” Paul asked, confused. Was John planning on _buying_ one of these?

“Macca. Which record player do you like?” John ran his fingers along the wood of one of the more expensive models. “Please try and keep it below a hundred bucks, though. Cynthia will actually murder me if I blow all of our money on a record player.”

“John, I don’t-”

“We need to have a record player if we work in a damn record shop. Besides, we get an employee discount-”

“Fifteen percent!” Ritchie chimed in.

“Exactly. Fifteen percent off! Now for the love of Christ, pick one so we can get it home before Cyn gets home.”

“I guess,” Paul pointed to a turquoise one that wasn’t too expensive. “I like that one.”

“It’s even Cyn’s favorite color!” John said excitedly. “Now go get those records you’ve been so attached to the whole day.”

“I can buy my own records, Johnny,” Paul said defensively.

“I know, Macca,” John said gently. “Just bring ‘em up to the register.” They put their things up on the counter, and Ritchie grinned widely as he gave them their fifteen percent off employee discount.

“I can’t believe you spent fifty dollars on records,” John sighed. “It’s a good thing we’ll have paychecks soon. That’s a dangerous habit you’re forming, Macca.”

“Y’know, some of the records I bought have slow songs on them. If we hurry up and get home before Cyn, I can teach you to dance,” Paul suggested.

“You think I don’t know how to dance!” John said in mock offense.

“Well, I never know with you,” Paul shrugged.

“I’m a proper gentleman, thank you,” John said in a fake British accent.

“Oh, right then. Maybe you’ll teach me a thing or two,” Paul responded, also faking a British accent.

“Cheerio then, old chap. We’ll have a bloody dance off as soon as we return to our flat.”

“Bloody well right, then,” Paul said, and then they both cracked up. “We sound ridiculous, don’t we?”

“Oh, absolutely,” John smiled. Had they not been in public, and had John not been carrying an expensive record player, Paul would’ve kissed him right then and there.

“So, what’s this slow song you keep sayin’ we’re going to dance to?” John asked after they’d gotten the record player all set up.

“Do you like the Doors?” Paul asked, flipping through the records he’d bought and pulling an album out.

“I’ve heard ‘Light My Fire,’ but that’s about it,” John admitted.

“Well, ‘The Crystal Ship’ is one of my favorites. It’s slow, but it’s not really a love song,” Paul shrugged as he set the record on the turntable.

“So, why are we dancing to a not-really love song?”

“Well, this is a not-really love between us, isn’t it?” Paul responded, and John didn’t know how to respond to that. After a moment of fiddling, music started. Paul turned up the volume, stood up, and held out his arms towards John. “C’mon, then. Let’s dance.”

John was exquisite. They danced for a little bit, just wrapped in each others’ arms and slowly swaying, before Paul got -- well, not bored, really, but he wanted to make things more exciting.

So, without warning, he kissed John again. He kissed the older man hard, forcefully, and John was taken by surprise. Paul was about to stop, as John didn’t seem to be reacting, but then John met him with the same intensity.

Paul had just discovered that John had a sensitive spot on his neck when Cynthia walked in.

“Oh, I’m just so mad I could _kill_ a person!” Cyn yelled angrily, throwing her purse on the ground. John and Paul practically jumped apart, both of their hearts racing.

“Cyn, it’s not-”

“Some _creep_ tried to hit on me at work!”

Paul, who was ready to start defending both himself and John, stopped dead in his tracks. He was expecting Cynthia to yell at him and John for making out, but thankfully that didn’t happen. She was too livid about work to have even processed what she'd walked in on.

“I’ll kick his ass,” John said angrily.

“That makes me feel better, Johnny,” Cynthia sighed, wrapping her arms around John. “Oh, and Paul? Trying to teach John to dance is pointless. He’s amazing. _I’m_ the one who needs help.”

“He was teaching me, Cyn,” Paul said nervously. “He’s much too good to be teaching me, though.” John winked at Paul, and Paul felt his heart melt a little bit.

This secret was going to be _incredibly_ hard for Paul to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know that for each chapter I normally do something sort of from John's perspective followed by something sort of from Paul's perspective. This time, though, I accidentally switched things up and wrote from Paul's perspective first. It doesn't change things much but it's different form all the other chapters.  
> Also, I recently started school again and I'm trying to get back in the swing of things so I'm sorry if I go even longer than normal between uploads.  
> Thanks so much for reading!

“I’m goin’ to visit my brother and aunt on Sunday,” Paul said, breaking a long silence. John glanced up from the album cover he was studying intensely, but then looked back down. Cynthia was off running errands, so it was just the two boys alone with the record player.

Things had been...awkward, to say the least, since the first day they’d started working. That day, while John comforted and reassured a very freaked-out Cynthia (Paul later learned that some creep had tried to feel her up), Paul had grabbed a book and gone to sit in a nearby park and read. Well, really, he didn’t get a whole lot of reading done. His mind, though it had been racing all day, was somehow going even faster. There was, however, one recurring thought that Paul managed to focus on.

What the _hell_ did all of this mean?

Obviously, John was still with Cynthia. That wasn’t going to change. But, there was the undeniable fact that John had sucked Paul off before they’d gone to work the first time. There was absolutely no coming back from something like that. At least, not without a fair amount of time.

And, _fuck_ , what’d this mean for Paul? How on earth could he go back to Kansas -- back to Jane, too, if she still wanted him -- after John? Would John and Cynthia kick Paul out? That wasn’t _so_ scary, Paul thought, because he was already going to have to leave at some point, but he still didn’t like the idea very much.

He just didn’t want to leave John.

Paul sat on the bench, book open but the lines of text not registering as English, for what was most likely no more than half an hour but what felt like weeks. He’d just flipped the same page over for probably the tenth time when somebody sat down right next to him.

“You comin’ back, Macca?” John asked, his tone jovial, as if the entire day hadn’t happened and things weren’t fucked up between them. “Cyn’s got some cheesecake leftover from the diner, and she’s playin’ the Doors. Really loves that album you bought apparently.”

So, without saying a word, Paul shut his book and followed John back to 1300 Page Street.

“You can’t keep avoiding me.” John’s response snapped Paul back to the conversation he was currently in.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Paul said defensively. He suddenly found his socks -- an itchy navy blue pair that he hated, but that was all he’d remembered to throw into his bag when he left -- very interesting to stare at intently. “I promised my aunt I’d come back once a week to see her and Mikey.”

“She’ll get over you not being there once, won’t she?” Paul couldn’t see John, but he could practically hear the eye-roll anyways.

“I can’t do that to Mike.”

“He’s only your brother, Paul. Surely you can let him be for more than a week.” John’s tone was carefree, but when Paul glanced up from his feet, the older man looked almost upset as he studied the album that was still in his hands.

“He’s not-” Paul started, and stopped, realizing he didn’t know what words to use to explain what Mike was to him. What could Paul possibly say that could explain how he’d had more or less taken all the roles of parenthood except being the main source of income? He’d“He’s not _just_ my brother.”

“Aw, is he your best friend too?” John said, his tone mocking and unexpectedly sharp.

“Oh, fuck _off_ , John,” Paul rolled his eyes. “I promised him and my aunt I’d be there. Goin’ back on promises is a dick move, if you didn’t know.”

“I know it is, but then you’re avoiding me and we can’t _fix_ this if you go off to your aunt’s and refuse to talk to me.”

“ _I’m_ not the on-”

“Besides, I don’t even know if you’ll come back.”

“Do you not _want_ me to come back? Because that can sure as hell be arranged.” Paul meant it, but he didn’t _want_ to mean it. He wanted John to convince him to stay.

“Of course I want you to come back.” So John _did_ still care about him.

“Well, then, what the _fuck_ are we?”

“I don’t know. You know I can’t break up with Cynthia, right? That can’t happen.” John sounded as though he was desperately trying to make Paul understand something. And, though Paul wished he couldn’t, he could understand exactly where John was coming from.

“Then there’s no real point in me staying around, is there?” However, understanding where John was coming from didn’t exactly prevent him from being angry.

“Of course there is.” John sounded offended. At some point during their argument, both of them stood up, and they were now standing very close to each other.

“For what? So we can make things really awkward and tense until we jus to low up at each other one day?” Now _Paul_ was the one that sounded pleading and desperate.

“We could just forget it ever happened,” John said, a note of hopefulness in his voice. Paul just shook his head and sighed.

“That’s the _thing_ , John. I can’t just forget about it.”

“Well, you can’t just _leave,_ either,” John said defensively.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Paul was so upset and hopeless and lost that he felt like crying. “I barely _know_ you, and you’re driving me absolutely fucking crazy.”

“Then stay. Stay, and we’ll-”

“We’ll what? Sneak around behind Cynthia’s back?”

“Yes.” John sounded as though he meant it. Paul didn’t doubt for a second that John would cheat on Cynthia in a heartbeat. Well, really, he already had.

“That’s not fair to her, John. And besides, what about fall? I have to finish school. _Mike_ has to finish school. I can’t just stay out here forever.” Paul was rambling. He always rambled when he got nervous. Paul jumped when John put his hand on his shoulder, but the touch was relaxing.

“Don’t think about fall. Just think about _us._ ” John’s hand trailed from Paul’s shoulder down to Paul’s hand. Paul hesitated, he wanted to pul it away at first, but he didn’t. As much as Paul hated to admit it, John’s hand was comforting.

“That’s cheesy, John.” Paul was trying very hard to hide his smile. Even he could tell that it wasn’t working very well.

“Oh, hush. I’ll be cheesy if I damn well please.”

“I just- I dunno, John. This can’t be right, can it?” Paul wrapped his free hand around John and pressed himself against the older man, resting his head against John’ s collarbone. He might be questioning whether or not this was right, but some part of him knew that it was.

“Well, shit, Paul. If that was wrong, then I sure as hell do _not_ want to be right.”

“That’s cliche,” Paul mumbled against John’s chest.

“You’re cute.”

“Those,” Paul twisted his head up to try and look John in the face, “those two things are not related. At all.”

“Oh, shut up,” John was grinning cockily. “Kiss me.”

And Paul did.

* * *

 

 

Besides their little talk, the rest of that afternoon had solved absolutely nothing. They’d danced some more, and John felt like he was in a cheesy romance novel but it was fun.

This, though, wasn’t the same slow dancing of a couple days prior. That had been intense, almost needy. They’d been pressed against each other, not really dancing as much as just swaying gently back and forth. This, on the other hand, was more fun. Paul had bought that “Happy Together” song, and John was having great fun twirling the younger boy around to it. They were halfway through the song for what was probably the eighth or ninth time when there was an angry pounding at the door. They boys froze, Paul mid-spin, and slowly lowered their arms. Paul glanced at John, then at the door, then at John again, almost begging John to answer it.

“You’d better go check who that is, Macca,” John grinned widely, trying to conceal his heavy breathing.

“Or you could go check who it is,” Paul said. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his flushed cheeks and bright eyes betrayed him.

“I really don’t _wan_ -” Before John could finish his sentence, the angry pounding began again. John sighed, but walked over to the door to open it.

Before he’d even opened the door all the way, the yelling began. “Are you two the ones playing your damn music so loud?” John opened the door all the way to see an old man. The man didn’t have much hair, but what hair he had was white and thin.

Paul, who was on the other side of John and a good six or seven feet away from the man, let out a little squeak of surprise.

“Damn kids these days,” the old man grumbled. His voice was quieter, but every trace of anger from earlier remained in it. “I bet you two are dodging the damn draft, aren’t you?”

“No,” Paul said calmly, and John was shocked. He was just as angry as the old man and if he’d been left to his own devices would’ve been yelling in return. “He has a lung disease,” Paul pointed towards John. _That_ was a lie. “And I have a rare blood condition.” Well, for all John knew, that could be the truth.

“Excuses, excuses.. Anyways,” the man’s voice was growing in volume and intensity as he spoke, “are you two playing that music so loud?”

“Yes,” John said curtly. This goddamn old man thought he could just walk in here and yell at them for playing music. It was _hideously_ unfair.

“It’s a surprise for his girlfriend,” Paul said, giving John a look that said _keep your mouth shut and go along with it._ “It’s her favorite song. She was supposed to be home a little bit ago but something must be holding her up.”

“Oh.” This seemed to confuse the old man. “You mean, you’re not queers?”

John saw red. He was about to give that goddamn old man a piece of his mind when he felt Paul lightly touch his arm.

“No.” Paul forced a smile. John did his best to keep a neutral expression.

“Well, there’s been a bit of a rumor flying around. I guess I overreacted a bit, didn’t I?”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Paul said, laughing softly. John put on a forced smile and nodded his head.

“Just try and keep your music down a little bit, will you?”

“Of course, yeah.” Paul kept the awkward smile on as the old man walked out the door, and shut the door behind him. As soon as John thought the man might be out of earshot, he turned to Paul angrily.

“That son of a _bitch_ ,” he almost yelled, and Paul grabbed the older man’s wrists gently in an effort to calm him down. John twisted free and waved his arms around madly. He didn’t smoke much -- it was an expensive habit for a mostly broke teen to keep up with -- but he would’ve killed for a cigarette right then.

“John.” Paul was trying to be calming. John didn’t want to let on how much it was helping him.

“Thinks he can just go around and insult us. I don’t _like_ it.” This time, when Paul grabbed his wrists, John didn’t fight it.

“Well, neither do I, John,” Paul said gently. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Paul hugged him, and John clung to the younger boy as though he might be taken away at any point.

Maybe, he thought, in a different place and in a different time, they could be happy together.So happy together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	10. Chapter 10

It was oddly quiet without Paul around. Cynthia was working, even though it was Sunday -- it seemed like Cynthia was _always_ working -- so it was just John. All alone. He didn’t mind so much -- with no siblings around and one very strict aunt, his house was usually quiet -- but after almost two weeks of constantly being around Paul and constantly talking, the silence was odd.

He didn’t do much. There was no real reason to, not on a Sunday. He made one quick run to the grocery store, where along with his purchase of a loaf of bread and some lemonade he was given a blunt, which he’d left at the store. When Cynthia got home -- early for once, around 5:30 -- he’d help make dinner, and then Paul would hopefully get back, and they’d go back to work tomorrow. Right now, though, there was no point in doing anything. So, John lay on the floor, stared up at the ceiling, and played Paul’s records.

At a low volume, of course. The thought of that grumpy ass old man -- John didn't even know the man’s _name,_ for fuck’s sake -- coming back to yell at him didn’t just make John angry. In fact, unlike so many millions of things that should’ve had a similar effect, that old man scared the hell out of John.

In Iowa, John wouldn’t have had to worry about something like that. Nobody back home would’ve even entertained the _thought_ of the boys being queer. It was absolutely unheard of. Here, though, things must be different. Maybe San Francisco _wasn’t_ the free-thinking, free-spirited place that John had thought it was.

Or, he desperately hoped, or it was just that one man. It was just that one man, and maybe a handful of others, and John could hold Paul’s hand and kiss his cheek and his forehead and his nose and his-

The sudden silence after the record finished brought John out of his daydreams and back into reality. This was only 1967. Maybe in fifteen or twenty years, he could do what he wanted with Paul in public.

But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. John had Cynthia, and had no real plans of leaving her. He knew sneaking around behind her back with Paul was wrong and hurtful, and if she ever found out she’d have every right to leave him. He knew He knew all that, and yet he refused to stop. There was just something about being around Paul that made his life that much better.

But that was enough daydreaming for now. John glanced at the clock -- the one that had taken him and Paul almost an hour to hang up. Just looking around the small, barely furnished apartment, John realized he had more memories with Paul here than he had with Cynthia. Cyn would be home soon. He sighed, pushed himself off of the floor and walked over to the record player. He took off the current record -- the Doors, again -- and picked a random one to play next. It was the Monkees, who were without a _doubt_ John’s guilty pleasure. It was a fake band for a TV show, for Christ’ sake, but Paul enjoyed them, and they’d grown on John.

He’d reassumed his position on the floor -- almost two weeks here and they _still_ hadn’t gotten any real furniture besides a mattress for Paul -- and was two or three songs into the record when Cynthia came home.

“Well, you haven’t done much, have you?” she smiled, shutting the door of the apartment behind her and kicking off her shoes. John grinned and got up to hug her.

“What are you talkin’ about?” John asked in mock offense as Cynthia pressed her head against his chest. John felt waves of guilt roll over him when Cyn sighed happily, still pressed against him. Here she was, obviously in love with him, and all he could think about was how soon Paul would get back. “I’ve been workin’ my ass off all day for you.” He swallowed his guilt and gently pushed Cynthia away.

“Have you done _any_ thing?” Cyn asked, peeling off the small jacket that was part of her uniform and slipping out of her shoes before starting to walk towards the kitchen.

“I got some lemonade and some bread,” John shrugged, following her. “Had a sandwich for lunch and wore Paulie’s records out.”

“Where’d you get a sandwich from?” Cynthia asked, confused.

“I said I bought bread, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Cyn admitted, “But I’ve never heard of a sandwich made entirely of bread.”

“Paul and I got some ham and cheese,” John shrugged. “Have you really not seen that sitting in the fridge?”

“Guess not,” Cyn shrugged, setting a paper sack that John had just now noticed on the counter next to the fridge. “But, I stopped at the butcher’s on the way home. I might have splurged a little bit.”

“Cyn-”

“Before you say anything,” Cynthia grinned and pulled two neatly wrapped bundles out of the sack, “Georgie gave me a little bonus. Since I’ve been working so much lately.”

“Oh, you call him Georgie now?” John was trying to be lighthearted and funny, but it came out as harsh.

“Mhmm. And when you’re not calling Paul Macca, you call him Paulie. Should you really be concerned?” Cynthia said, knowingly and unfazed as she started to unwrap the little bundles.

Well, John thought, _you_ should be concerned about why I’m calling him Paulie.

“What goodies did you get at the butcher’s?” John asked, trying to change the subject. He did _not_ want to accidentally say something about him and Paul.

“Some steaks and some bacon. I stopped and got some potatoes too,” Cyn said matter-of-factly, digging around in one of the cabinets for a big pot to fill with water.

“Well, we’re having a feast, aren’t we?” John smiled, pulling the potatoes out of the bag.“It’s Sunday dinner. Doesn’t feel right to just eat take-out again.” Cynthia lifted the pot -- one they’d found in front of their door with a note that read “for our newest neighbors” on it -- up to the sink and turned the tap on. “There should be a little knife in the drawer next to the stove. You get to peel potatoes, mister.”

“Oh, I’m _mister_ , am I?” John laughed, digging through the drawer for the paring knife.

“Damn right you are,” Cynthia laughed back. She sat the pot on the stove and turned it on. “Get those all peeled by the time the water starts boiling or we’re gonna have an issue.”“Oh _no_ ,” John said sarcastically. “Not an _issue_.”

“Shut up,” Cynthia smiled, taking the parcel with the steak and untying it. For a moment, as John peeled potatoes and Cynthia started preparing the steak, John could almost imagine that this was going to work out. He could almost imagine that he’d tell Paul he had to go when the younger boy got home, and then he and Cynthia would go back to Iowa and live a life of domestic bliss.

And then he heard the door to the apartment swing open.

Paul.

* * *

 

It had been _so_ good to see Mike. Yeah, it’d only been a week since the last time, and yeah, all they did was walk around and buy food from lots of different places, but it was still good. It was nice to clear his head for a little bit, without the stress of John around.

Because, though Paul didn’t really like to admit it, John _was_ stressful. Paul _still_ didn't know where he stood with the man. Their “talk” had done nothing except make Paul even _more_ attached, as if that was somehow possible. He felt horrifically guilty -- he could only imagine how guilty John felt -- about hiding this and keeping it a secret from Cynthia.

Aunt Edith had made him stay for a big, mid-afternoon meal that she called Sunday “linner,” for a combination of lunch and dinner. It was fantastic -- fried chicken and scalloped potatoes -- and Paul had more than eaten his fill, but when he got back to 1300 Page Street and smelled steak and bacon he got hungry all over again.

“You’re back!” Cynthia said excitedly, running out from the kitchen. She was about to give Paul a hug when she pulled her arms back and stepped away. “I have raw meat all over my hands. I shouldn’t touch anything. But I’m glad you’re back!”

“It’s good to see you too,” Paul responded. “But it’s only been a day. You act as if I’ve been gone for weeks.”

“It’s been a long day, Paul,” John grinned, stepping out of the kitchen with a potato in one hand and a paring knife in the other. “I’ve worked my ass off.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cynthia laughed, swatting John with the dish towel she’d retrieved from the kitchen. “You haven’t done a damn thing.”

“John?” Paul asked as he sat down next to the box of records on the floor and began to look through them.

“Yes?” John asked, trying to sound completely innocent.

“Any particular reason my albums are all out of order?”

“It just doesn’t make any sense to me how you organize them,” John shrugged.

“I do it _alphabetically_ ,” Paul sighed, and then laughed. “I guess I’m glad to hear that somebody besides me is enjoying them.”

“John, the water is boiling,” Cynthia called from the kitchen. “Are those potatoes peeled?”

“No,” John grumbled. “I’m coming.”

“Old ball and chain has you real worn out, huh?” Paul laughed.

“I heard that, Paul,” Cyn said, mildly threatening, from the kitchen.

“She buys five potatoes and three steaks and some bacon and thinks she runs the place,” John grinned.

“You’d better get in the kitchen and finish those potatoes before she kicks your ass,” Paul smiled. John grumbled some more and went into the kitchen. Paul selected another record -- the Mamas & the Papas, one he’d bought for only one song -- and played it. He lay on the floor -- not that he knew it, but he was in the exact same spot John had been lying in just hours earlier -- and listened to a combination of “Creeque Alley” and the sounds of playful flirting from the kitchen.

It had been so good to see Mike, but Paul was glad to be back with John and Cynthia.

“Paul!” John yelled later, about two thirds of the way through the album.

“What do you want?” Paul groaned, pushing himself off of the ground. “I was comfortable!”“Vodka in your lemonade or no?” John smiled as Paul walked into the kitchen. The potatoes were boiling, the steaks were in some kind of marinade, and John had three glasses of lemonade poured.

“Well, that didn’t go so well last time, did it?” Paul smiled softly, and Cynthia laughed. “Barely made it to work on time.”

“Did I not tell you?” John looked surprised as he poured vodka into all three glasses of lemonade. “Ritchie’s mom’s sick. The store’s closed until Tuesday.”

“When did that happen?” Both Paul and Cynthia said it together, and Cynthia laughed a bit more than she should’ve.

“She’s already had a glass,” John explained, stirring the lemonade and vodka together and handing one to Paul. “But Ritchie called earlier today. We don't have to go in tomorrow, so drink up, baby.” Paul sighed and took the glass. It wasn’t as good as when he’d made the lemonade himself, but it wasn’t bad either. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped that drinking wouldn’t become a regular occurrence for him.

“So,” Paul shrugged after taking a few sips, “do we trust Cyn to cook when she’s had alcohol? Seems a little risky to me.”

“Don’t worry,” John sighed. “She gets scared of heat when she’s tipsy so I’ll be the one doing the cooking.”

“More important question,” Paul grinned, “Do we trust _you_ to be cooking steaks for us?”

“Best damn steak cook this side of the Mississippi,” John grinned.

“Let’s go dancing, Paulie,” Cynthia said suddenly, setting her glass on the counter and grabbing Paul by the hand. “Johnny told me he’s been giving you lessons. I wanna see what he’s taught you.”

“Go on, Paul.” John nudged a very bewildered Paul out of the kitchen and towards the record player. “Steaks’ll be ready in probably ten minutes.”

Paul and Cynthia danced -- horribly, judging by the sounds of John laughing from the kitchen -- their way through another glass of lemonade each and four songs before John had finished the steaks.

“Cyn,” he said, poking his head out of the kitchen. “Cyn, am I supposed to cook the bacon now?”

“No,” she giggled, dropping Paul’s hands and walking to the kitchen. “That’s for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“How much have you had?” John asked, pointing towards the lemonade as he cut a chunk of butter into the potatoes. Paul was impressed -- _he_ knew how to cook, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected John to be able to handle steaks and potatoes at the same time. He nudged John out of the way and took over mashed potato duty.

“Like, three?” Cyn counted on her fingers. “Yeah. Three.”

“That’s enough for now,” John said gently. “Just regular lemonade for you, okay?”

“Ugh,” Cynthia groaned and rolled her eyes. “Okay, bossy boss.”

John smiled, looking quite proud of himself, as he set the steaks on three plates. Paul dished out some mashed potatoes and carried all three plates out of the kitchen. John followed behind, drinks in hand, and they sat on the floor.

As they ate and laughed, Paul thought once again that as good as it was to have seen Mike, he was glad to be back with John and Cynthia.

Later, after Cynthia had fallen asleep and John and Paul had washed all the dishes up, the boys were sitting, talking quietly. They had to be quiet -- they didn't want to wake Cynthia, and the bedroom and living room were essentially the same thing -- but tipsy Paul was having a hard time controlling his laughter.

“Shhh,” John said, trying to sound stern but laughing a little himself. “Shhh, don’t wake her up!”

“What are you gonna do to stop me?” Paul teased. “You can’t do anything!”

“Oh, _yes_ I can,” John said, and with four words the mood went from playful and teasing to something more intense.

“Mhmm,” Paul was still giggly, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to be. “And what exactly would that be?”

“This,” John said, and kissed him. Less than two seconds later they heard something clatter to the floor and broke apart instantly.

“ _Well,_ ” said a very disgusted voice, and Paul looked up to see the grumpy old man from earlier. “I _never._ ”

“What the hell are you doing in here?” John said angrily, almost instantly jumping from a sitting position. Paul got to his feet too, ready to try and hold John back from through punches.

“I came to do the neighborly thing and bring a dessert for Sunday dinner.” The old man sounded so disgusted that even Paul was getting angry. “But then I stumbled upon this _sin-_ ”

“You’re the one that just walked into my house!” John yelled angrily, and Paul put a hand on his shoulder. He could only hope that John understood he was being told to calm down.

“And does your poor girlfriend know about this?”

“No, and-”

“Excuse me!” the old man yelled, and Cynthia sat straight up.

“Wha?” she said groggily, trying to process what was going on.

“I think your boyfriend has something he wants to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time! I'm so sorry !!! School has been kicking my ass.

“Get the _hell_ out of here,” John said, his anger barely controlled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Paul squat down and mumble something softly to Cynthia. He breathed a sigh of relief when Cynthia rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head.

“On what grounds?” the old man said smugly. It bothered John even _more_ that he didn’t know the asshole’s name. 

“On the grounds of you don’t _fucking_ live here, that’s what,” John spat, and before he could open his mouth again he felt Paul’s hand on his shoulder. They exchanged a glance and John stepped back to let Paul handle the situation.

“You should leave,” Paul said, gently but firmly. John was surprised at how strong Paul sounded. _He_ was almost tempted to walk out and leave. Paul obviously had a similar effect on the man, who grumbled and stepped back a bit.

“You owe me for the pie plate,” he muttered, just as angry but not quite as loud. “It was a cherry pie my wife made for you three.”

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?” Paul said, walking towards the door slowly. “There’s a little diner three blocks down. Let’s have lunch at noon. It’s on us.”

“I don’t know,” the many said, eyeing Paul suspiciously as they reached the door. John watched from the back of the room, a mixture of awe (at how Paul was handling this) and rage (that this was even _happening_ ).

“Well, Mr. -”

“Dawson. Dick Dawson.” Cynthia, who was apparently still conscious enough to process what was happening, snickered a little bit.

“Sorry, Mr. Dawson,” Paul smiled apologetically, “She’s a little drunk. Anyways, Mr. Dawson, I’m sure you have no intention of leaving this building anytime soon, and neither do we. We should talk this out, or living near each other is going to be pretty awful.” 

“Y’know,” Mr. Dawson said thoughtfully, “for a queer,” both John and Paul winced a little bit at the word, “you seem to have your head on your shoulders okay.”

“Thank you, sir.” Paul sounded forced.

“I’ll see you two boys at lunch tomorrow.” And with that, Dick Dawson was out of the door. Before the door had even had a chance to shut all the way, John sank down onto the mattress next to Cynthia na put his head in his hands.

“Everything okay?” Cyn mumbled, and John reassuringly rubbed her back. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly lifting his head to look at her before putting it back in his hands. “Just go to sleep, Cyn. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Cyn mumbled, and pulled the covers back over her head.

“Dick sure is a fitting name for him, isn’t it?” Paul said borderline sarcastically. John lifted his head up again. He didn’t understand how Paul seemed so totally unfazed.

“How’d you learn to be like this? Talk like this?” he asked, gazing up at the younger boy, who looked back in confusion.

“What now?” he asked.

“So calm. I’d’ve punched that man but you fixed everything.” It was a skill John would very much like to master. He could _never_ control his temper and had a bit of a reputation for swinging at people back in Iowa.

“My dad,” Paul shrugged.

“Don’t you two not get along?”

“We don’t,” Paul said bitterly. “But right after mom died, he’d go through spells of gettin’ real angry. They were always short -- a day or two at most -- but talking like that and controlling my temper always seemed to work. It’d get him back to his normal self for two, three days.”

“Makes sense,” John nodded. When he felt like it, that’s what he’d do with Mimi. That was very rare though.

“Doesn’t really work anymore,” Paul shrugged. “But sometimes it’ll help a little bit. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” John asked, standing up and following Paul.

“Don’t want to wake Cynthia up,” Paul smile. 

“Look at you, thinking,” John grinned in response. “Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

“Sure,” Paul shrugged. “But I reserve the right to not answer.”

“How old were you when your mom died?”

“Fourteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“My turn for a question,” Paul said softly. 

“Are we playing fuckin’ twenty questions now?” John tried to grin but it didn’t go well -- talking about his mom in any manner always made it a little harder to grin -- so he crossed his arms instead. 

“You bet your ass we are,” Paul grinned softly, his tone somewhat playful. 

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Why are you in San Francisco?”

“‘Cause I knew you’d be here.”

“No. Seriously,” Paul pressed, and John sighed. 

“I don’t want to live in Iowa my entire life. I know it’s the life Cyn wants, and I’m willing to give what I want up for that, but I just wanted to see something. Have some life experiences besides husking corn for ten hours a day.”

“I respect that,” Paul shrugged.

“My turn for a question,” John said, opening the fridge and pulling out what little was left of the lemonade. “Why are _you_ in San Francisco?”

“Take a wild guess,” Paul said sarcastically. 

“Life experiences?” John asked, raising his eyebrow jokingly. 

“No, to get- oh,” Paul started angry, but he shifted to laughter when he realized John was joking. John knew. 

“Get away from the old man, huh?” John said in a very, _very_ bad British accent. Paul laughed a little as he jumped up onto the counter.

“Why d’you do everything serious in a bad accent?” Paul asked curiously. 

“Made you laugh, didn't I?” John said, and Paul sighed.

“Yes, okay. You did do that,” the younger boy admitted, pleased to see a grin spread across John’s face. 

“You worried about lunch tomorrow? With Dick?” John asked, in a tone much more serious than Paul was expecting.

“‘Course I am, yeah. Are you?”

“Nah,” John shrugged nonchalantly. “If I can make you laugh, I can make anyone laugh.”

* * *

 

 

Paul did _not_ want to go to lunch with Dick Dawson. It was a fitting name, he thought, but the fact that the universe had worked out that way did nothing to ease his nerves. He didn’t know why he’d suggested lunch -- except, maybe, that talking things out with his father over food used to help -- but that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that they were supposed to be there in seven minutes and John didn’t have any shoes on. Between the two of them, they’d managed to get Cynthia up, dressed, notand on her way to work, but that meant they were running behind.

“I _swear_ -” Paul grumbled under his breath as John hurriedly pulled a shoe on. 

“Oh, hush,” John rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine. I know a shortcut.”

“John, we are _not_ walking across the rooftops again. I did that with you once and almost got arrested.”

“Not my fault you don’t know how to run when I tell you to,” John shrugged, and Paul shot him an angry glare. “Don’t worry, Macca. I don’t actually know a shortcut.”

“Then why’d you- never mind. Let’s just go, okay?” Paul worried the hem of his shirt and glanced at the door nervously. “I have a feeling that if we don’t get there as close to noon as possible Mr. Dawson is going to hate us even more than he already does.” 

“Well then,” John grinned as he (literally) jumped up from his spot on the bed. “Let’s be quick.”

They made it to the diner with one minute to spare. Mr. Dawson was, as expected, already sitting at a table, with a half empty cup of tea. He’d gotten a table tucked in the back of the diner, which meant they could talk without being overheard. 

“Nice of you boys to join me,” he said in a voice that was obviously meant to be condescending but also, somehow, didn't _feel_ very condescending. 

“Sorry we’re on time,” John said, a fake smile plastered on his face, and Paul elbowed him sharply as they sat down. This wasn’t going to go very well at _all_ if John kept being the sarcastic fuck he was.

“Have you ordered already?” Paul asked instead, doing his best to sound polite. The man on the other side of the table could very well ruin the rest of his time in San Francisco, and that wasn’t a risk Paul felt particularly willing to take.

“I felt I should wait until you arrive to place an order,” Mr. Dawson said cooly, and Paul could practically feel the irritation radiating off of John.

“Very kind of you,” Paul said, in a voice that he worried sounded obviously forced. “Thanks.” As if the whole thing had been planned, the waitress came by at that moment, notepad in hand.

“Can I get you something to drink, or are you ready to order too?” she asked, and John smiled up at her. 

“Water and a ham and cheese, please,” John said, a charming smirk on his face, and the waitress blushed a little bit. 

“Of course. And for you, sir?” she turned to Paul, but her eyes kept flicking back to John. Paul wondered why John was laying on the charm, but the remembered who they were eating with. It’d probably help to see at least one of them flirting, even just a little bit, with a girl. 

“A Coke and a burger. Please,” Paul smiled at the waitress, who was jotting everything down on the notepad. 

“That’ll be right out for you folks.” With that, the waitress turned around and left the odd group to themselves. 

“How’ve you been?” John asked, and Paul was surprised that John was even attempting to make conversation. He was expecting the older boy to be hostile the entire time, but maybe he was finally coming to his senses.

“Let’s not make small talk, shall we?” Mr. Dawson said, his voice cloyingly sweet. “We’re here to discuss, are we not?”

“I-” Paul was taken slightly off guard by Mr. Dawson’s abruptness, but was cut off by the man before he could actually respond.

“My wife and I expect a new pie plate,” Mr. Dawson said, calm and crisp and brisk. 

“That’s-” John started angry, but shut his mouth when Paul gently placed a hand on the older boy’s thigh.

“What else?” Paul responded, somehow managing the same tone as Mr. Dawson. 

“How long do you plan on staying in San Francisco?” Mr. Dawson asked instead of giving an answer.

“The end of summer. My brother -- John is _not_ my brother, Mr. Dawson -- and I have to return to school.”

“You've brought your brother out here to live a life of sin with you?” Mr. Dawson the disgust obvious in his voice. “You are _that_ irresponsible with your brother? Your own _family_?” This time, when Paul felt John tense up next to him, Paul didn’t try to stop him.

“His brother, for your information is staying with their aunt in Westwood Park. This is the first time in three and a half _years_ Paul is getting a break from acting as a father and you sure as hell are _not_ going to ruin it for him.” John’s words were weak -- if he’d been given more than thirty seconds to think he probably would’ve ripped Dawson’s head off -- but the anger in his voice more than made up for it.

“I _hardly_ think that’s fair-”

“We’ll replace the pie plate. Besides that, though,” John’s voice was growing louder and louder, heads were turning, and Paul was almost regretting letting John go, “you leave us alone, and we’ll leave you the hell alone.”

“Is this a bad time?” the waitress said, in a very small voice. “You’re food is, uh, it’s ready.” Realizing John was still fuming and would probably snap at the poor girl, Paul spoke up.

“Could we get those to go, please?” 

“No problem,” the waitress smiled, nodded, and hurriedly walked back to the kitchen.

It was an awkward two minutes -- punctuated only by Mr. Dawson and John’s glares, and people trying to catch quick glimpses of the trio without being caught -- before the waitress was back with their food wrapped in brown paper sacks.

“Thanks,” Paul smiled, taking the sacks and putting a $10 bill on the table. “Now John and I’ve got to get going,” that was a lie, the only plans they had were to wander around the shops, “but this has been a fun talk.” With that, he grabbed John by his shirtsleeve and roughly yanked him out of the restaurant. 

“Well _that_ was fucking awful,” Paul groaned as they stepped outside and started to walk quickly back to 1300 Page Street.

“Hey, it could’ve been worse, yeah?” John said, trying to sound optimistic. “And besides, at least he’ll leave us alone from now on, right?”

“Oh, god I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN A REALLY LONG TIME. I'M SO SORRY. I'LL TRY AND BE BETTER ABOUT THAT.

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” Paul said casually. It’d been a few days since the awful lunch with Mr. Dawson -- who, by the powers that be, hadn’t bothered them since -- and John was gradually starting to feel less uncomfortable. Much as he hated to admit that anything had bothered him or shaken him up, that really had. He’d never been attacked for feeling a certain way before. 

It disgusted him, to some extent. Here he was, absolutely head over heels for this boy, and people thought that it was wrong. How on earth could it be wrong? John didn't understand how people could think it was wrong. He’d never, not once in his life, felt something so absolutely pure and true for another person. And he almost hated it. John, who did not like cliches and did not like to feel as though he was a cliche, was struggling a little bit. Cynthia had been nice and predictable and almost boring. Paul was new, and exciting, and he made John feel deliciously alive. That was a cliche, wasn’t it? 

“Did you hear me? Earth to John, earth to John,” Paul said, giggling, and John broke out of his thoughts with a smile. 

“Sometimes I wonder about him,” Cyn added, laughing with Paul. 

Ever since the Dawson lunch, as Paul referred to it, John felt as though he’d been walking on thin ice around Cynthia. She claimed to remember none of it, but she was a good liar.

“Shit, Paulie, your birthday. We oughta do something special, huh?”

“Oh, it’s nothing really.”

“Bullshit! You’ll be eighteen! A real man!” John said, flexing his mostly nonexistent muscles and making a face.

“Still look like a chick, though,” Cyn mumbled, and laughed as Paul swatted at her. 

“How d’you feel with getting a cat for a present?” John asked, and Cynthia rolled her eyes.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she sighed. “Not this cat nonsense again.”

“You know I love cats!” John said, very offended.

“How’re you gonna take it home with us?” Cyn asked. “Cats can’t go on buses. That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll get him on the bus somehow.”

“I’m not getting on a bus with you and a _cat_ for a couple dozen hours.”

“I’ll mail him.”

“ _That’s_ a stupid idea.”

“Well, then, I’ll buy a car to drive him home in.”

“You’ll buy a _car-_ ”

“I’d love a cat,” Paul interjected, mostly to get the other two to shut up, and the debate between John and Cynthia came to a halt.

“Paul, I don’t think you understand,” Cynthia started.

“How much this means to me!” John finished, practically flying out of his sitting position to wrap his arms around Paul. He stayed there, for perhaps a second too long, and only broke off when Cyn cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, a little too bitterly, “maybe I’d’ve agreed to have a cat sooner if I’d known that was the reward.”

“Oh, hush, doll,” John smirked, wrapping his arms around Cynthia and pulling her onto his lap. He tried to ignore the look of jealousy that flashed across Paul’s face.“You’ll get your damn reward for putting up with me.”

“Oh, will I, now?” Cynthia asked, staring at John and biting her lip flirtatiously. All traces of bitterness had disappeared as son as John had stopped paying attention to Paul and started paying attention to her.

“Yes,” John grinned, pressing a kiss to the corner of Cynthia’s mouth. “Just you wait.”

There was silence -- John and Cynthia had obviously forgotten that Paul was near them -- as the couple gazed at each other. John twirled Cyn’s hair between his fingers, oblivious 

“Uhm,” Paul cleared his throat, momentarily breaking whatever trance had fallen on the other two.It didn't take long for them to go right back to staring at each other.“You owe me,” he said, before slipping on his shoes and walking out of the apartment. John was unsure as to whether Paul was referring to the cat or the fact he was leaving John and Cyn alone for the time being.

“Looks like it’s just us,” John grinned, before leaning in for a long, slow kiss. He tried to ignore the voice in his head saying that Paul was a better kisser, that the way Paul knotted his fingers in John’s hair was better, that Paul was just _better_. 

And besides, Cyn was a good fuck. God, he felt _awful_ thinking like that. Cynthia was more than a good fuck. She was the person John could tell almost anything to. Cyn was the person he’d shared years of his life with and Cyn was the person he was more or less prepared to spend the rest of his life with. 

“Y’know,” Cyn mumbled contentedly, her head resting on John’s chest. “I heard what Mr. Dawson said about you and Paul.”

John prayed that Cyn didn’t feel him tense up at that statement, and then took a deep breath. “You know he’s not telling the truth, right?”

“Oh, hush, Johnny,” Cyn said seriously, running her fingertips across John’s stomach. “I know there’s something between you two.”

“I-” Fuck, this was not supposed to happen, this was _not supposed to happen_ -

“Don’t yet your panties in a twist, Johnny,” Cyn laughed, and John prayed she couldn’t see the look of confusion on his face. “I’m only joking.” 

John’s head was reeling -- he was pretty sure he had whiplash from this conversation -- but he tried to sound like a normal human being when he spoke. “What are you _talking_ about?” 

“That old man that lives near us came to see me while you were at work yesterday.” John couldn’t control himself and sat straight up, knocking Cynthia off of his chest. “Christ, John, are you okay?”

“What’d he say?” John’s chest was heaving -- he was panicking and breathing much too heavily -- but he couldn’t control himself.

“He just tried to tell me that he saw you and Paul kissing Sunday night. John, why are you so upset over this?” Cyn sounded worried as she gently coaxed John back to lying down. “You and Paul aren’t a thing, right?”

“No. Of course not, Cyn.” 

John _really_ hoped his lie was convincing enough.

Then, at just the right moment -- Cynthia was obviously getting suspicious and if John kept talking he’d end up giving it all away -- there was a knock at the door. Almost too quickly, John jumped up to go answer it. He hastily threw on a pair of pants and opened the door to find Paul. 

“Oh, sorry,” Paul said, obviously seeing Cynthia dash into the bathroom, wrapped in a bed sheet and holding a bundle of clothes. “Bad time?”

“No,” John said, still breathing a little heavily from one combination of the conversation with Cyn and jumping up to answer the door. He leaned in to kiss Paul’s cheek, but also whispered, “Cyn’s getting suspicious.”

Before Paul had a chance to say anything back, John heard the bathroom door swing open and quickly stepped away from the other boy.

“Welcome back, Paulie,” Cynthia smiled, delicately linking her left arm in John’s right, and John noticed she was wearing a _very_ short dress that happened to show off her thighs perfectly and - “What’d you do?”

“Got some food. Found a litter of kittens somebody’s given away a few blocks up if you want to check that out.”

“Kittens?” John said, very excitedly. “Can we go? Now? Please?”

“Put a shirt on and, uh, button your jeans,” Paul said, trying not to laugh as John scrambled to button up his jeans, “and yeah. I’ll show you where they are. Cyn, you coming?”

“No, I’ll just ruin the fun. You two have fun.” While she was talking, John had dashed around and thrown on a shirt and was tying up his shoes. “And John?”

“Yeah?” he responded, halfway out the door. 

“One. Cat. No more.”

“No guarantees, Cyn!” John yelled, then grabbed Paul’s arm and they were off.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is sort of a lousy birthday present, huh?” John asked as he walked along with Paul, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Nah,” Paul shrugged. “Cats are good. Besides, they make you happy, and that’s _also_ good.”

“Oh, shut up,” John said, and Paul saw him smile as he glanced down at his feet. “Still not a real birthday present, is it?”

“I like cats all right,” Paul shrugged. “They’re cute as kittens mainly.”

“They’re cute all the time, dumbass,” John said, mildly offended. “I love cats. Mimi has two, and I feed all the strays I can find.”

“Oh, you’re adorable,” Paul said, quietly so nobody could hear him, and John’s cheeks grew slightly pinkish. “Hey, turn here,” Paul said, and without thinking he grabbed John’s wrist and yanked him down a side street.

“Careful,” John grumbled, and Paul dropped the other boy’s wrist as though it’d suddenly become very very hot. “Oh, you’re not hurting me. Just hard to resist kissing you when you grab me like that.”

“Shh,” Paul hissed, roughly bumping into John as they started to walk down the side street. “We’re walking out of the Haight now. We’re going into the Castro.”

“Oh, fuck off,” John rolled his eyes. “The Castro loves queers way more than the Haight ever w ill.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Paul sighed. 

“But that’s not what’s important. How much longer until we get to the kittens?” John asked, looking around for any trace of cats. 

“Up and over two streets,” Paul grinned. They were getting close -- Paul could hear kittens meowing -- and John was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. “Wow, you and Cyn were,” Paul said between laughs, “you were not kidding about loving cats.”

“Fuck off, Paul,” John grumbled. “God, they’re so _loud_ , aren’t they? Oh my god, are they in that basket? They _are_ , aren’t they?” And John was gone. Paul saw him run up to the basket, mutter a greeting to the young girl sitting with the kittens, and by the time Paul got over there John was holding three and petting another one.

“Johnny, Johnny calm down,” Paul laughed as he neared John. “Cyn said one.”

“She said _I_ could only have one. Nothing about you. Besides, it’s technically _your_ present. You can get as many as you want!” John looked at all the kittens carefully. “Hell, if you want, you can get all seven of them!”

“You’re hard to say no to with kittens crawling all over you,” Paul sighed. “Two. You can get _two_. Any more than that, and Cynthia will absolutely eat me alive.”

“Oh, you’re the best, Paulie,” John smiled, and then all of his attention was diverted right back to the kittens.

“I like those two the most,” Paul heard the little girl say as she pointed to two of the kittens, and John laughed. 

“Do those two have names?” John said, and Paul could hear more laughter in the background. He, however, was focused on the man walking out of the house they were in front of.

“Are you interested in the kittens?” the man asked, holding a hand out to shake. “Name’s Stuart, but you can call me Stu.”

“I’m Paul,” Paul smiled, shaking Stu’s hand. “And yeah, I think the man-child and I are gonna take two of the kittens. If that’s all right.”

“Just two?” John wined, and Paul struggled to hold back a laugh. 

“Mhmm. Just two.”

“Oh, you two are cute together,” Stu smiled, as John walked over to Paul, carefully holding the two kittens the little girl had proclaimed were her favorites. 

“Thanks, but we’re not really together. He’s still got a girlfriend.”

“Hmm. Real closet case, huh?” Stu said, and laughed. 

“He’s from Iowa,” Paul said, in a loud stage whisper, and John rolled his eyes.

“He’s from Kansas,” John said, also in a loud stage whisper, and they all laughed. 

“Be nice to the kittens, pretty please,” the little girl said, very concerned. 

“Don’t you worry,” John smiled. “Freckles and Spaghetti will be very happy with Paul and I.”

“Freckles and Spaghetti? Katherine, they’re your favorites,” Stu said, sounding surprised. 

“I know, Daddy,” Katherine smiled. “But Mr. Johnny says he loves cats a lot and I can’t keep Freckles and Spaghetti, so they should go to someone who’ll love them lots. 

“That’s very nice of you,” Paul said, warmly. The girl -- Katherine -- reminded him of an eight or nine year old Mike. 

“Well,” John said, after they’d started the walk back to 1300 Page Street, squirming kittens in hand. “Life in San Francisco just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment telling me what you think and here's hoping this gets better instead of worse


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